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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22779682">Card Catalogs and Finding Aids</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brionypoisoned/pseuds/brionypoisoned'>brionypoisoned</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Wholesome Archival Office AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Real World, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Pining, Rating May Change, Road Trips, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:02:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,010</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22779682</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brionypoisoned/pseuds/brionypoisoned</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically that AU where everything is the same except they all (save Martin of course) went to Archival School.</p><p>Jon Sims, after months of work, is finally awarded grant funding for an oral history research project into the supernatural. The downside is he's going to have to work with bloody MARTIN.</p><p>No magic, no entities, just good old-fashioned workplace drama.</p><p>Rating will change in future chapters.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Wholesome Archival Office AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>524</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Reading Room Policies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Lukas Reading Room of the Magnus Archives (so named because of a generous 2006 donation from billionaire Peter Lukas which redid the floors and purchased solid wood library tables with inset power outlets) enclosed its patrons in a dim, elegant, almost churchlike atmosphere. Well-bound reference books in leather gem tones lined bookshelves on every wall, and an imposing portrait of founder Jonah Magnus hung above the reference desk. Individual reading lamps set at even intervals glowed with a soft orange light. The air was frigid cold, a temperature ideal for the preservation of ancient manuscripts but less so for researchers, who usually ended up sitting on their hands to warm them after a few hours in the room. There is a reason archivists own so many cardigans. </p>
<p>	Jonathan Sims, Director of Research Services, fidgeted at his desk near the rear of the room. Most of his workspace was unusable, taken up by chunky plastic binders full of out-of-date finding aids. His laptop had gone black in front of him, as his attention for the last 15 minutes had been fixed solely on the research desk.</p>
<p>	Martin, the only research assistant on duty, was <i>chatting</i> with a patron, and had been doing so for some time. Jon glanced back to the other two patrons in the room, who continued to quietly flip through the folders and boxes in front of them, taking pictures with their phones from time to time. So far none of them seemed to have slipped any precious documents into their own bags, or carelessly returned a manuscript to the wrong folder, or, perish the thought, absently SCRIBBLED on a document with a pencil, but if they HAD done so MARTIN would be none the wiser, as he was distracted by what looked like a pleasant <i>chit chat</i>. </p>
<p>	After another five minutes Jonathan could stand it no longer and rose to address the issue. Martin’s face fell the moment Jon stood up, and his expression of doe-eyed fear and apology filled Jon with an immediate and irrational annoyance. </p>
<p>	Martin’s obvious alarm caused the man speaking to him to turn around to check what was going on. Jon nodded at the patron in what he hoped was a polite way, before ignoring him and addressing Martin directly.</p>
<p>	“Martin, do you need me to help you behind the desk, today?”</p>
<p>	“I… erm…” Martin sputtered, looking around at the almost empty reading room. He hadn’t been asked to fetch a new manuscript box in two hours. It was not as though he was swamped. “Um… no? I mean… unless you think you should?” Martin, to Jon’s utter dismay, was beginning to turn a deep pink. </p>
<p>	“Martin was just telling me about some good restaurants nearby.” The patron who had been speaking to Martin addressed Jon this time, expression hard to read. He was a young man, about Jon’s age, with obviously self-dyed black hair and artistically smudged eye-liner. The Magnus Institute, the only academic archive for the supernatural in London, attracted its share of goths, wiccans, and folklorists, or any combination thereof.</p>
<p>	Martin smiled.</p>
<p>	“Gerry’s here from London Metropolitan, doing some research on hauntings and memory. I was just warning him about the 3pm blood sugar drop which comes from powering through in the archives without eating lunch.” </p>
<p>	Jon didn’t pay attention to Martin’s response, he kept glancing behind him to make sure the other two patrons hadn’t gotten up to any funny business while his back was turned. </p>
<p>	“There’s a good sandwich shop ‘round the corner.” Martin whispered to Gerry while Jon was distracted. Gerry gave him a confused shrug and went back to his table to collect his things. He gave Jon a suspicious glance before heading out. </p>
<p>	“All I mean is” Jon hissed to Martin, “That if its too much for you to help one patron AND keep an eye on the others then perhaps I ought to join you.”</p>
<p>	Martin blushed again, in his absurd, infuriating way. Jon for the life of him couldn’t imagine what about the prospect of joining him behind the desk would make Martin blush like that. </p>
<p>	“It’s fine…. I’ll…. I’ll pay better attention.” Martin stuttered. </p>
<p>	“Look,” Jon felt himself flush now, this was getting ridiculous. “Look, I only ask you to do this because it’s so important. Did you know that a considerable portion of the Thomas Edison Papers were stolen from the Edison Archive in the 1970s, lost to history, because one man was left unattended in the archives?”</p>
<p>	“I… really?” Martin looked stunned. “Someone stole Thomas Edison’s papers?”</p>
<p>	“He brought home briefcase after briefcase of documents, they still turn up on the United States black market from time to time.” Jon rubbed his temples, turning around and glancing back at the reading room. One of the patrons closest to them was giving them an irritated look, although whether or not it was because she had just been accused of criminal action was unclear. “So just… please be diligent.” </p>
<p>	“Of course. Yes… of course.” Martin nodded. “Erm, I think…” Martin pointed to Jon’s desk at the back of the room. “I think Elias may be looking for you.” </p>
<p>	“Oh BLAST.” Jon said, loud enough that both reading room patrons gave him a dirty look. His 2pm meeting with Elias, carefully marked on his written calendar, had gone by absolutely unnoticed. He turned to find the, as always, slightly overdressed middle manager stood by his desk with his arms crossed. “Take care, Martin, sorry.” Jon said, excusing himself. </p>
<p>	Martin, once Jon was out of hearing range, let out a little discouraged sigh.</p>
<p>	“Hello Jon.” Elias greeted, as Jon fumbled to grab his notebook off his desk, accidentally knocking over a few binders and apologizing profusely for his lateness as he did so. The two of them left the reading room to go to Elias’s office.  “I did actually send you a reminder email.” Elias said.</p>
<p>	“Yes, I’m sorry, I was just… dealing with something,.” Jon gave Martin one last glance over his shoulder. The archival assistant was standing at attention where he was supposed to, keeping an eye on the patrons and the documents. </p>
<p>	Finally. Jon thought.</p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	“The grant came through.” Elias said, once Jon had taken his seat in the uncomfortable chair opposite his desk. Jon actually did a double take, like a cartoon character.</p>
<p>	“Wait, for the statements?” He asked, surprised.</p>
<p>	“We’re calling them ‘Oral Histories’ but yes. A two year grant, fully funded.” Elias said. </p>
<p>	Jon let out a little delighted cackle and then covered his mouth in embarrassment. </p>
<p>	“That’s… that’s spectacular!” He said, displaying more delight in that moment than he had since securing his position at the Archives. This project, actually going out and collecting stories of the supernatural from people, in an interview environment, rather than simply piecing through the stories which came in to the archive, had been a pet of his for years. And now he was going to be in charge of the project! A funded project! For two years!</p>
<p>	“I didn’t want to say anything, Jon, before we knew the money was coming in, but I’m afraid there were a few changes made to the MOU before we sent it along.” Elias’s tone knocked the smile right off of Jon’s face. </p>
<p>	“Ex-excuse me? What changes?” Jon asked. He’d spent months writing that grant, making sure that his workflow and plan was feasible, that his argument was clear and cohesive, that his lines of funding made sense. </p>
<p>	“Well…” Elias pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your original grant called for two full-time positions.”</p>
<p>	“Yes.” Jon said, “I would collect the interviews and Sasha would transcribe and annotate.”</p>
<p>	“Some of our reviewers suggested that it was too much work for one person to collect all of the interviews, and that a full time position wasn’t necessary for transcription.”</p>
<p>	“That’s nonsense, transcription and research take MUCH longer than interview collection… that… that doesn’t make sense.” Jon protested. As any archivist knows, recorded audio is one of the most difficult formats to actually share in an archive. As soon as an archive accepts an audio file, they need to determine when they will have the time and resources to transcribe it, and thus make it usable. Transcription is both dull and blisteringly difficult. There are other options, of course, subject finding aids, content summaries, but they all require labor which most archives don’t have to spare.</p>
<p>	Oral Histories are good for research because they are easy on the subjects being interviewed. They are hell for an archivist.</p>
<p>	“So in the end we split the second role into three part time positions. That is, you’ll have access to part of the time of three current archival employees.”</p>
<p>	“Three?”</p>
<p>	“Three assistants, yes.” Elias said.</p>
<p>	“Sasha of course…” Jon said. He would flip a desk if he didn’t get Sasha, the girl was a research miracle worker.</p>
<p>	“Yes, Sasha obviously.” Elias paused. “And also Tim.” </p>
<p>	“Oh. Well, Tim’s fine, I suppose…” Tim was a bit much, for Jon, but his work was solid…</p>
<p>	“And Martin.” Elias finished.</p>
<p>	“Ugggghhhhhh” Jon groaned viscerally before he could even fully process the statement. “Martin? Seriously?”</p>
<p>	“He is to assist you in collecting the Oral Histories.” Elias said, sitting up a bit straighter and ignoring Jon’s wildly unprofessional conduct. </p>
<p>	“Why Martin!?” Jon asked, the way a man might who was pleading with some god of the underworld who was doling out punishment for his sins. </p>
<p>	“Some of our reviewers raised concerns about your ability to…” Elias looked very tired. He tried again. “Jon, how would you describe your own ‘people skills’?” He placed an odd emphasis on the last two words. </p>
<p>	“Adequate.” Jon replied, with venom. </p>
<p>	“That’s a bit optimistic, though, isn’t it?” Elias said, making a face.</p>
<p>	“As if Martin’s any better!” Jon snapped.</p>
<p>	“Martin consistently gets glowing reviews from our researchers. He’s appeared in the acknowledgements of at least 15 separate published doctoral theses since he first began to work here. You barely appear in your own published thesis, Jon.” </p>
<p>	Jon scowled. For some reason Google Scholar had misspelled his name on his own graduate thesis and therefore one had to search Jonathan Simms in order to find the correct version. It was all very humiliating.</p>
<p>	“So I’m expected to drag Martin with me around the city, as I collect these interviews?” </p>
<p>	“Oh around the country, I expect. Even on to the continent for a few, I imagine.” Elias said. For a moment the glow of success began to return to Jon. Work travel. He was going to be outside of the Archive. He was going to have a purpose other than just sitting in a cold room and helping other people write their interesting projects. He had a project of his own.</p>
<p>	“Well, I suppose that is… acceptable.” Jon admitted.</p>
<p>	“Splendid.” Elias smiled coolly. “I’ll let you pass along the good news to your assistants.” </p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	Tim popped a bottle of champagne in the living room of his very tiny flat. </p>
<p>	“To our new jobs!” He announced, as Martin ducked the foaming spray which splattered him from the bottle. </p>
<p>	“Our titles haven’t changed.” Sasha pointed out, accepting her glass of champagne graciously from her spot on the couch. She was still in her work clothes (a brightly colored cardigan, because hey, archivists can have a bit of fun now and then) and she looked out of place in Tim’s sparsely furnished bachelor pad. It wasn’t their first time socializing outside of work, but it was her first time in his place. </p>
<p>	“Yeah but our pay’s gone up!” Tim grinned, too handsome and cocky for his own good. </p>
<p>	“Did you invite Jon to this?” Martin asked, glancing at the door for the millionth time from his cushion on the floor. </p>
<p>	“Of course not, Martin, he’d hate every second of it. He’d probably be standing awkwardly in the doorway telling me that I ought to arrange my books by subject, or something.”</p>
<p>	“Hold on. How do you arrange them?” Sasha asked, craning her neck to get a look at the bookshelf.</p>
<p>	“I spend all day arranging things, Sasha, I’ve no patience for it at home.” Tim shrugged.</p>
<p>	“Wait, not even by <i>author</i>?” Sasha stood up then, to get a look, an expression of dawning horror on her face. “Is that… you’ve got volumes 1 and 2 of Sailor Moon Stars separated by a Vegan cookbook and…  Sun Tzu’s <i>The Art of War</i>?” </p>
<p>	“I am not accepting criticisms at this time!!” Tim protested. “Let’s talk about Martin instead, Martin, why are you so keen on Jon attending this small celebratory gathering?”</p>
<p>	“Oh, it’s just…” Martin hated being the center of attention and Tim had a tendency of putting him on the spot. “I mean he’s the one that gave us the jobs, I wouldn’t want him to feel left out.”</p>
<p>	“Martin, we all know you want to fuck Jon, please, just, out with it.” Sasha said, finishing her glass of champagne in one swig and causing Tim to absolutely lose his shit. Work Sasha was a bit of a stick in the mud but TIPSY SASHA? Tipsy Sasha was the absolute best.</p>
<p>	Martin blushed crimson. </p>
<p>	“No of course not, I mean, it would be innappropriate…” Martin muttered.</p>
<p>	“Now wait, hold on.” Tim refilled Sasha’s plastic champagne flute and then turned his attention back to Martin. “Was Sasha not joking there? Is this a thing?” </p>
<p>	“Are <i>you</i> joking? Do you not have eyes, Tim? It’s BEEN a thing.” Sasha spoke in a pitying, but not unkind tone. </p>
<p>	“I…” Martin knew there was nothing he could say to make them understand it. He didn’t understand it himself really. “He’s actually very sweet, deep down.” Martin admitted.</p>
<p>	“No! Martin! No!” Tim scolded him like he would a misbehaving puppy. “Jon is not sweet! He’s quite rude actually! Particularly to you! I swear, sometimes I see the way he talks to you and it makes me want to wring his skinny little neck! Sasha, we have to do something about this.” </p>
<p>	“What is there to be done?” Sasha responded, leaning back on Tim’s couch with her champagne, shaking her head in bewildered pity.</p>
<p>	“I don’t know! Do you know anyone?”</p>
<p>	“I swear to God, if either of you try to set me up with someone I’m calling the police.” Martin muttered.</p>
<p>	Sasha laughed. She hated to tease Martin but he was always such a good sport about it that she slipped sometimes. It was just that after months and months of watching him smile absently at Jon, bring him cups of tea, get nervous and fumble the answers to obvious questions, someone had to call him out about it. </p>
<p>	“Do you date women? I only know women.” Sasha asked.</p>
<p>	“No, Sasha, thank you, I do not.” Martin said. </p>
<p>	“Martin’s too cool to set up with one of your boring friends anyway.” Tim continued, prompting Sasha to give him a friendly smack. “What type of person are you attracted to, Martin?” </p>
<p>	“Well… men…” Martin said.</p>
<p>	“God, yes, got that, but like… what <i>kind</i> of men?” </p>
<p>	Martin finally finished his drink with a little sigh.</p>
<p>	“Men who don’t like me back.” He admitted in a small voice. </p>
<p>	“OH NO!” Both Sasha and Tim exclaimed at once. </p>
<p>	“I absolutely will not tolerate that kind of talk in this house!” Tim said, cheeks a bit pink from alcohol. “Martin, you are a lovely bloke and you deserve nothing but the best. Jon is a garbage… judgemental, weird little demon man and you will have none of it.” </p>
<p>	“What’s it going to be like collecting the oral histories with him?” Sasha asked, suddenly a bit concerned. “Will you be all right?” </p>
<p>	“Of course I’ll be all right!” Martin scoffed. “It’s not as though I’m swooning away at the sight of him.” </p>
<p>	“Yes but it must be awkward, right?” Sasha continued. “He’s just so… Jon.” </p>
<p>	“Honestly? I’m rather looking forward to it.” Martin admitted. “It’ll be nice to spend some time with him alone, and either realize that this whole thing was just a silly misunderstanding on my part or, as I suspect will be true, find out that I’m perfectly correct and Jon is actually a very sweet person.” </p>
<p>	“Do you think he’ll fall in love you if you spend more time together?” Tim asked.</p>
<p>	“Oh God no!” Martin laughed. “But still.” He shrugged. “It might be nice.” </p>
<p>	Sasha and Tim made concerned eye contact. The situation was obviously worse than either of them had realized. </p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	In a different part of London, Jonathan Sims sat alone at his tiny kitchen table, reading and re-reading the MOU of the project while enjoying a celebratory Bakewell. A six pack of Guinness which he had optimistically purchased that afternoon sat in his refrigerator, unopened. He didn’t like to drink so soon before going to bed; sleeping fitfully at the best of times, alcohol only made it worse. His apartment was quite tidy, as it always was, only a single mug and dirtied butter knife in the sink waiting to be washed. </p>
<p>	Jon took another bite of the Bakewell. It wasn’t much of a celebration, but it would do.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. File Corrupted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>MEMORANDUM OF UNDERSTANDING</b>
  </p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p>Magnus Institute “Stories of the Supernatural” Oral History Project</p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p>By Jonathan Sims, Director of Research Services</p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>CONCEPT</b>
  </p>
</div><i>Since its founding in 1818, The Magnus Institute has served as London’s foremost research institution for supernatural and paranormal studies, amassing a diverse and valuable collection of artifacts, books, and primary sources related to the esoteric. Due to the unusual nature of first-hand paranormal encounters, the institute allocates a large percentage of its archival staff’s time to determining the credibility of its sources. We would like to propose a new project, an oral history project, which would play to the strengths of our staff’s research capabilities while complementing the unique nature of our subject. An oral history project would allow our staff to collect stories of the supernatural directly from the people with who lived them, while ensuring our interviewees’ full understanding of the nature of our work, and giving our staff more control over the breadth and substance of the statements. Each interview would consist of, for the most part, a preselected set of questions. This will allow for an unprecedented level of scientific consistency. However, the one-on-one nature of the oral histories will provide our staff the flexibility to ask follow-up and probing questions. This will allow our trained researchers to ensure that the statements both stay on subject and go into the level of detail necessary for an academic source. Such a project will add significantly to the scientific rigor of our institute’s collections, and provide a valuable resource to scholars of the supernatural.</i><p>~*~</p>
<p>	Jon stood on the sidewalk across from Nathan Watts' apartment complex, fumbling to find his mobile within his newly purchased leather satchel bag. He'd bought the bag to tote around his laptop and brand new microphone for the recording sessions, and he wasn't quite used to it yet.</p>
<p>He was early. It was a good quarter of an hour before either he or Martin were meant to be there, so, in fairness, he couldn’t blame Martin for not having arrived yet. In practice, though, just because Jon had no reason to blame Martin for something didn’t mean that he wouldn’t.</p>
<p>Finally he managed to retrieve his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, squinting for Martin’s contact info as people jostled past him on the sidewalk. The day before, Martin had given him an odd, inexplicable face when Jon has asked for his phone number. Jon found his reaction maddening. Of course they were going to need one another’s phone numbers. And yet Martin had gone sort of pinkish and had responded to the question with what could only be described as a high pitched, panicked, snort. It was utterly baffling.</p>
<p>	The fact that the first interview was local seemed like a good warm-up. No long train rides or awkward road trip conversations. Just a simple trip on the tube. If only Martin could be on time for once…</p>
<p>	“Hullo Jon!” A chipper, high pitched voice greeted Jon from behind his left shoulder, making him jump and, once again, lose his grip on his phone.</p>
<p>	“CHRIST, MARTIN! DON’T DO THAT!” Jon snapped, bending down to pick the phone off the pavement, satchel nearly sliding off his shoulder as he did so.</p>
<p>	“Sorry sorry sorry!” Martin stooped to try to help but only got in the way. The crowds of people shuffling past were definitely giving the two of them dirty looks. “Is it all right?” Martin asked.</p>
<p>	Jon’s phone had unfortunately, as Agatha Christie or Lord Tennyson would put it, crack’d from side to side.</p>
<p>	“It’s fine.” Jon grumbled, scrolling through the shattered screen and, with some relief, finding that it still functioned. “It’s not your fault.” </p>
<p>	“I’ll pay for the repairs!” Martin sputtered.</p>
<p>	“I know what you make, don’t be stupid.” Jon replied with a sigh, putting the phone in his back pocket instead of dropping it back into the mysterious recesses of his satchel bag. Martin looked miserable, but he didn’t try to argue. Jon shook his head to clear it. “You ready to go in?” He asked.</p>
<p>	“Um, yes, I mean… I am, but Watts might not be, we’re not due for another ten minutes.” </p>
<p>	“Good point.” Jon answered. The two men shuffled awkwardly on the sidewalk. Jon bit the inside of his cheek and kept adjusting and readjusting his bag. Martin stared at his rather nice brown shoes. He had clearly put forth an effort with his outfit, he wore a comfy looking orange sweater over a pink checked dress shirt. He looked very academic. Jon’s usual dress shirt and jeans looked slightly frumpy in comparison.</p>
<p>	“I’m excited.” Martin said with a hopeful smile. “I’ve never done an interview before. I feel like a journalist.”</p>
<p>	“We’re not journalists, we’re researchers.” Jon corrected. It was like Martin hadn’t even read all of those academic articles about the nature of oral history he’d sent him. “We’re not trying to force any kind of narrative, we’re hear to listen to what Mr. Watts wants to tell us.” </p>
<p>	“I mean, to be fair, journalists aren’t really meant to force a narrative?” Martin said, voice ascending in pitch with every word.</p>
<p>	“That’s rather optimistic of you.” Jon answered, but he didn’t sound quite as grumpy as he said it. “He’s got to be ready for us now, we’re only five minutes early.”</p>
<p>	Martin nodded, ready to get going.</p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	Jon’s laptop refused to work. </p>
<p>	Jon stared at it, brain slowing to a sludge the way it did when he was fully panicked. He wanted to blame it on Martin somehow, but even Jon couldn’t figure out how Martin could possibly vandalize his microphone so that it would simply, under no circumstances, connect to his laptop. <i>I should’ve brought Georgie!</i> he agonized. <i>She’d know what to do here!</i> </p>
<p>	Of course he’d been too proud to call his ex-girlfriend and ask for her help. Too cocky. <i>I’m Jonathan Sims and I’m in charge of a research project and I’m a massive twat who won’t ask for help!</i> he thought to himself.  </p>
<p>	“Testing… 1… 2… 3…” He tried again. Still, the little green bars which, if everything was working, should indicate that his laptop was picking up audio refused to appear. Nathan Watts sat on his couch with his legs crossed, being very patient, but they had been sitting in his living room for a full 20 minutes and neither Jon nor Martin had asked a single question. Their mugs of tea were rapidly growing cold on the coffee table, and Jon just stared, without a clue of what to do about it, at a computer screen that refused to cooperate.</p>
<p>	“Erm, Jon?” Martin asked. The small voice was like nails on a chalkboard.</p>
<p>	“Yes.” Jon managed to keep his voice from a growl, but barely. He didn’t want Nathan Watts to think he was some sort of lunatic, but keeping it together was a struggle.</p>
<p>	“I brought… forgive me, but erm, I brought a tape recorder, if that might work.” Martin said.</p>
<p>	Jon’s eyes flashed.</p>
<p>	“Why… why on earth would you bring a tape recorder?” He asked. </p>
<p>	Nathan chuckled.</p>
<p>	“Where did you even come across a working tape recorder in 2020?” he asked.</p>
<p>	“I, erm.” Martin blushed. “I use them to record my poetry. I think tapes have a kind of lo-fi charm.” </p>
<p>	“Poetry?” Jon asked, soul leaving his body.</p>
<p>	“That’s rather nice actually.” Nathan Watts said. “Lo-fi charm.” </p>
<p>	“Does it work?” Jon asked, staring at the large, clunky, black plastic tape recorder Martin pulled from his bag. </p>
<p>	“It works just fine! And… I mean, obviously its not ideal, but in a pinch?”</p>
<p>	“I think… I think we are in a pinch, Martin, thank you.” Jon closed his laptop as though it had wronged him (which, of course, it had) and gave Martin a confused and relieved smile. It was the first smile of its kind he had ever given Martin, although he wasn’t aware of that fact. Martin, however, was, and he held the memory of that smile in his mind like a little gift. They began the interview.</p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	Sasha stared at the cassette tapes as though they were two dead rats which Martin had just placed right in the middle of her desk. </p>
<p>	“You’re fucking kidding me.” She said.</p>
<p>	“Sasha!” Jon exclaimed, pausing at the door of his office in shock. </p>
<p>	“I’m so sorry!” Sasha covered her mouth, mortified. </p>
<p>	“FUCK YES!” Tim started to cackle from behind his own desk. “SASHA DID A SWEAR! Jon, you have to fire her.” </p>
<p>	“For that, you’re in charge of transcription…” Jon said to Tim, tone mostly resigned. Tim let out another little quiet swear at that. “Sasha, please attempt to be more decorous in the future.” Jon continued. “And get started on the research, I’d like you to look into student disappearances in Old Fishmarket Close, in Edinburgh, in early 2010.” </p>
<p>	“What about me?” Martin asked Jon, picking up the tapes from Sasha’s desk to give to Tim. </p>
<p>	“Good work today.” Jon said with a little nod. “Feel free to take the rest of the afternoon off.” And with that he went into his office and closed the door behind him.</p>
<p>	Tim and Sasha both gave Martin bemused looks. Sasha’s expression was almost impressed, but Tim looked slightly horrified.</p>
<p>	“How did you do that so quickly?” Tim asked.</p>
<p>	“Do what?” Martin asked.</p>
<p>	“Nothing… I guess.” Tim began fiddling with the tapes and the tape recorder in front of him.</p>
<p>	“Enjoy your afternoon!” Sasha said, settling in for a few hours of research.</p>
<p>	“I’m obviously not going to go <i>home</i>.” Martin said with a little exasperated sigh. “it’s only 2!” </p>
<p>	“You’ve got permission! You don’t owe the Institute anything, Martin, go home.” Tim said. </p>
<p>	“Who’s in the reading room now? Do you think they could use some help?” Martin asked.</p>
<p>	“I think it’s Rosie.” Sasha said. </p>
<p>	“Oh good, I’ll help her then.” Martin smiled. Tim and Sasha could not understand Martin’s fondness for the reading room. It was cold, you had to run around in circles handing people things and taking things back, and you had to deal with a certain type of genealogists who thought that anything they found on google was scripture truth.</p>
<p>	But Martin preferred working with people face to face, rather than over email. So he hurried off to help out. </p>
<p>	A surprising number of fidgeting, whispering people occupied just about every seat in the reading room when Martin stepped in to help. Rosie looked frazzled. Apparently some travel website had recommended going to the Magnus Archives and requesting a “Spooky Statement” as a date idea and now a bunch of tourists were pottering about wasting everyone’s time and not knowing the first thing about archival etiquette. Martin found himself wasting a lot of time, collecting items people requested only to have them returned to him less than five minutes later. It all felt a bit futile. Gerry was back in, and Martin felt bad for him, as now he was having to wait longer for his research. At exactly 30 minutes to closing he handed Gerry his last box of documents, having to do with a series of “highly scientific” paranormal investigations of an English manor house in the 1950s. </p>
<p>	“Sorry for the chaos.” Martin apologized. “Hopefully tomorrow will be a bit smoother.”</p>
<p>	“Not at all, I love chaos.” Gerry said, perfectly deadpan. A young couple looked as though they were going to walk up and ask a question, saw Gerry’s multiple eye tattoos and general aesthetic, and turned right back around. It was for the best, Martin couldn’t bring anything out for people after the 30 minute mark anyway.  Gerry leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Is it all right if, after the reading room closes, I ask you a few questions?” He asked. “About the archive?” </p>
<p>	“Oh!” Martin exclaimed. “I mean, sure! If I can be of any help.” </p>
<p>	The next thirty minutes went by rather quickly. Martin shooed everyone (very politely) out of the reading room and began to close up with Rosie. It took about 25 minutes before Martin locked the door behind him and met Gerry in the vestibule. Gerry stood out in the rather stately Magnus Institute waiting room. He was leaning against a marble pedestal scanning through his phone, wearing a long black overcoat that hung all the way down to his calves. Martin was sure it was a very cool jacket, but he couldn’t help imagining Gerry stuffing the overlarge coat into the tiny lockers they rented to researchers to temporarily store their belongings. He had to conceal a laugh.</p>
<p>	“You, erm, want to go to my office?” Martin asked with his best customer service smile.</p>
<p>	“Would I be keeping you?” Gerry asked.</p>
<p>	“Not at all.” Martin lied. As he did so, Elias Bouchard walked briskly into the vestibule, clearly on his way home for the day. He fumbled to a stop at the sight of Gerry.</p>
<p>	“Gerard?” He asked, eyes widening in delight. “Tell me that isn’t little Gerard?” </p>
<p>	“Elias? You know… Gerry?” Martin asked.</p>
<p>	“He can call me Gerard.” Gerry said in a low voice, making a weird expression. He extended his hand out to Elias. </p>
<p>	“Good to see you Gerard! Good lord, it’s like looking at your father! And a bit of your mum, I suppose.”</p>
<p>	“That’s how genetics work.” Gerry said. </p>
<p>	“H-how do you two know each other?” Martin asked.</p>
<p>	“Gerard comes from a long line of Magnus Institute employees!” Elias answered. “His mum’s mum used to work here, and his mum was always in and out of the archive when she was young, she told me. I used to work with his father actually! Eric outranked me.” Elias smiled the sort of smile which told you that a significant part of the story was being withheld. </p>
<p>	“You were at his funeral, I think.” Gerry said, killing the mood effectively.</p>
<p>	“I was, I was, yes. It was all terribly sad.” Elias gave Gerry another look up and down. “Nice tattoos, by the way, very appropriate for the Institute.” </p>
<p>	Gerard nodded at Elias in acknowledgement that he had said something, but it was absolutely impossible to tell his reaction to the compliment from his facial expression.</p>
<p>	“Well, I’m just going to meet with, uh, Gerard, for a moment, don’t want to keep you! Have a nice evening, Elias!”</p>
<p>	“Mm.” Elias said. “Of course. You too. Good to see you, Gerard, I hope you’re well.”</p>
<p>	“Well enough.” Gerard responded. </p>
<p>	Martin and Gerard made their way into Martin’s shared office. Both Tim and Sasha appeared to have gone home for the day. Tim had returned Martin’s tape recorder to his desk with a scribbled post-it on it that read “CURSED OBJECT.” Martin smiled and set it aside. </p>
<p>	“So, erm, Elias, eh?” He asked Gerry with a little smile.</p>
<p>	“Dad thought Elias was a right twat.” Gerard said. “I don’t remember much about my dad, but mum lost her shit when she found out Elias was the new director. She told me dad used to complain about him all the time.” </p>
<p>	Martin stared at Gerry, frozen by the complete and blissful joy that these words awoke within him. This was the best thing he had ever heard. Tim and Sasha were going to lose their MINDS. </p>
<p>	“I beg your pardon…” The door to Jon’s office creaked open and Jon’s head peaked out. “Did I just hear… did you just call Elias a twat?” </p>
<p>	Martin let out a small squeak, glancing between his supervisor and Gerry.</p>
<p>	“Why?” Gerry asked, turning around as cool as you please. “Do you disagree?”</p>
<p>	“Oh no, I just wanted you to elaborate.” Jon smiled as he stepped all the way out of his office. “Elias is absolutely a twat.” </p>
<p>	Martin grinned at Gerry as though they were misbehaving secondary school students. Gerry smiled.</p>
<p>	“He used to work with my dad. Eric Delano? Did you know him? He worked here in the 80s?” Gerry asked Jon.</p>
<p>	“No.. I’m… I’m only 31!” Jon huffed in protest. Martin covered a laugh with his hand.</p>
<p>	“Really?” Gerry asked. “I thought…”</p>
<p>	“It’s the hair, isn’t it?” Jon asked, looking somewhat deflated. “People always think I’m about 45.” </p>
<p>	“I thought you were closer to 60.” Gerry responded. Martin let out a little honk of laughter and then put his face down on his desk. </p>
<p>	“Anyway.” Jon pulled himself together. “It sounds like he had excellent opinions regarding certain coworkers.” </p>
<p>	“Is this your boss?” Gerry asked Martin, gesturing to Jon.</p>
<p>	“Yes.” Martin said.</p>
<p>	“Sort of…” Jon equivocated.	</p>
<p>	“Well, you should be nicer to Martin.” Gerry said. “He’s the best archival assistant up there, I’m gutted when he’s not working, he always helps me find the best stuff.” </p>
<p>	Martin blushed.</p>
<p>	“Oh you don’t have to say that…” He protested.</p>
<p>	“I do, if I want to be honest.” Gerry looked up at Jon. “I always try to be an honest person. There’s too much bullshit in the world.” </p>
<p>	“Quite right… quite right.” Jon looked sort of surprised. “I’ll, um, let you two get along with your meeting.” He retreated to his office with an awkward little wave and shut the door behind him. </p>
<p>	“Oh, I think you’ve frightened him!” Martin said in a hushed tone.</p>
<p>	“Good.” Gerry smiled. “I don’t want to keep you, I just wanted to ask about how to access artifact storage.”</p>
<p>	Martin and Gerry ended up chatting about Gerry’s project for 20 minutes or so before Gerry called it a night and took his leave.</p>
<p>By the time Martin finally packed up his things to go there was only one light left on in the place, coming from under Jon’s office door. Martin locked up, just in case Jon ended up spending the night in the office and forgot to lock the doors, which had happened a few times in the past. Martin paused before he left. He almost called out “good night!” Or “take care!” Or something, but he found he didn’t have the nerve. He closed the doors to the archive offices quietly behind him, so that Jon could continue to work, undisturbed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Sfiha</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin made sure to pack his tape recorder for the next recording session, just in case. This interview was, once again, in London, with Melanie King, the well-known host of the moderately successful youtube channel “Ghost Hunt Uk.” Martin hadn’t seen any of her videos before, so the week prior to the interview he’d watched a few episodes at work as part of his prep. When Jon walked out of his office for lunch one day and saw what Martin was doing he had had a minor conniption. </p><p>	Jon, Martin discovered, had an encyclopedic knowledge of every youtube channel, tv series, and podcast on the subject of the supernatural. Despite consuming what must be a considerable amount of content, he seemed to despise all of them with equal vitriolic passion. Just hearing the theme song for “Ghost Hunt UK” set Jon off on a 30 minute furious rant. Tim and Sasha, smelling blood, had gotten involved. They kept asking Jon’s opinion about other supernatural series (Tim literally pulled up a list on his phone) just to rile Jon up further. He was practically in a frenzy by the end. The only podcast he seemed to have any patience for was “What The Ghost?,” of which Sasha was a fan.</p><p>	Martin had sat there quietly, throughout, trying not to be distracted by the way Jon’s eyes flashed when he was really worked up. He decided to finish his research at home. </p><p>	So when Martin walked into Melanie King’s flat and saw Jon sitting right next to Georgie Barker, the charming host of the “What the Ghost?” Podcast, he nearly tripped and fell. Georgie was sat on the couch with an irritated expression typing something into Jon’s laptop while he repeatedly flipped a switch back and forth on his microphone.</p><p>	“I cannot believe you are using Audacity for this…” Georgie muttered.</p><p>	“Yeah, you’re really pulling out all the stops for this interview, aren’t you?” The woman who Martin recognized immediately as Melanie King answered from her seat across from them. She was a bit paler in person, without her youtube makeup, and even sitting down in lounge chair her posture was defensive. “A free software!” She sneered.</p><p>	“We did our last interview on a tape recorder.” Martin offered, as a point of comparison. Melanie and Georgie looked up in surprise, and Jon’s smile at Martin actually made his heart flutter.</p><p>	“Martin! Glad you’re here. Melanie, this is my assistant, Martin Blackwood.” </p><p>	Martin stepped forward and shook Melanie’s hand. Her handshake was firm, almost aggressively so. Martin hoped she didn’t think she had to impress him for any reason. </p><p>	“Pleasure to speak with you. I’ve seen your show.” Martin said.</p><p>	“Yeah? What did you think?” Melanie asked. </p><p>	“Oh! It was… very entertaining.” Martin said, glancing at Jon to see his reaction to his answer. Jon rolled his eyes but restrained himself from audibly scoffing.</p><p>	“I’m Georgie, by the way.” Georgie Barker said with a friendly wave. “Jon’s terrible at introductions. I’m here to help with the sound.” </p><p>	“You didn’t need to bring a sound tech.” Melanie snapped. “I do audio/visual for my job. I can set up a laptop recording, even if it is as basic as Audacity.” </p><p>	“I didn’t bring Georgie to insult you.” Jon said, tone more cranky than it had any right to be. “It’s just… I know Georgie, and last time my audio didn’t work. I didn’t want to risk that happening again.”</p><p>	“It’s just funny to me that you invited one of my competitors into my flat, that’s all.” Melanie said, crossing her arms and fidgeting. </p><p>	“I wouldn’t say we’re competitors!” Georgie replied, with a small, disbelieving laugh. She was quite pretty, a lighter skinned black woman covered in freckles. Her hair was a bit messy, her curls obviously requiring more work than she really wanted to give them, and her smile was unpretentious. “Look,” she leaned forward, “Jon only invited me because I’m his ex and he knows I do audio. Really, he didn’t mean anything by it.” </p><p>	Jon cringed at Georgie’s honesty, and Martin tried not to stare at the woman who he now knew had a romantic history with his crush. There was no need to despair, he told himself. Not all men who date women are straight—Tim was a sterling example of that! There was no reason to abandon what little hope he had to begin with.</p><p>	“There.” Georgie said, sitting up from the laptop with a flourish. “Melanie, would you give us a mic test, please?” </p><p>	“Testing… 1… 2… 3…” Melanie’s tone when speaking into a microphone was strong and professional. Martin couldn’t bear to tell her that 95% of their researchers would never hear her voice. It’s just much quicker and simpler to use a written transcription for research than it is to play through a whole audio file. Unless someone was making some kind of art piece, the audio itself wouldn’t get a lot of use. </p><p>	“Perfect. It’s recording.” Georgie stood up and gathered her things. “And with that, ‘the competition’ will leave.” </p><p>	“No, I’m sorry.” Melanie said. “I didn’t mean that. I love ‘What the Ghost?’ I listen all the time.” </p><p>	“It’s fine.” Georgie gave Melanie a lingering glance. “You all should get started. Nice to meet you! Er… both!” Georgie nodded at Martin as a sort of afterhought, and left the apartment.</p><p>	“Now, I just want to make sure you understand,” Jon began, tone unnecessarily harsh, “You have to be as accurate and truthful as possible in your answers to these questions.” Melanie’s jaw visibly clenched. Martin laughed nervously as a kind of defense mechanism, glancing back and forth between the two of them.</p><p>	“What’s that supposed to mean.” Melanie answered, her tone simmering with fury. </p><p>	“You know, oral histories and all that…” Martin said, trying to gently soften the mood, but Jon cut him off.</p><p>	“We’re not trying to sell t-shirts here, this is meant for serious research.” Jon said. </p><p>	“How many serious researchers do you get in your spooky archive?” Melanie said. “Compared to the ghost tourists, huh? The same people who love my shit love your shit.” </p><p>	“LETS JUST TAKE A MOMENT HERE.” Martin spoke up, gently touching Jon’s shoulder to stop him from making some retort. “Ms. King, we came here because we respect you. The story you sent us was credible, well described, and seemed like the sort of thing we want for our archive. I… I apologize if anything we’ve said has insulted you or your work. My colleague and I would both very much like to hear your story.” </p><p>	Jon gave Martin an irritated little glance, but he didn’t say anything else. This gave Melanie a chance to cool off. </p><p>	“I saw what I saw.” She said.</p><p>	“I absolutely and with no reservations believe you.” Martin said. </p><p>	“May we…” Jon said, biting his tongue, “May we begin?” </p><p>	“Fine.” Melanie said. “What’ve you got for me, then?” </p><p>~*~</p><p>	Martin and Jon stepped out of Melanie’s flat about 2 hours later with a high quality audio recording of a very interesting oral history. It had gone even better than the last interview, Martin had asked a few relevant follow up questions and got a bit more detail out of Melanie. Once she got going she was a very interesting and comfortable storyteller. Jon and Martin were both surprised when they stepped out of the building to find that the sun had gone down; it was much later than they had thought.</p><p>	“No point in going back to the office tonight, they’ll be locked up by the time we get there.” Martin said with a shrug, smiling at Jon. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” He gave a little wave and got ready to head off to his tube stop.</p><p>	“Wait… Martin…” Jon stopped him, adjusting his satchel bag over his shoulder. “It’s nearly dinner, would you mind… maybe, eating with me? I’d like to sort of… I have some debriefing I’d like to do after that interview. Only if you don’t mind, of course.” </p><p>	Panic gripped Martin at the thought of sharing a meal with Jon, one-on-one. </p><p>	“S-sure!” He squeaked. “W-where… would you like to go?” </p><p>	“We’re quite near… there’s actually a rather good kebab shop a few blocks down from here, I go quite often. Would you mind?”</p><p>	“I love kebab!” Martin said, with a weird amount of enthusiasm. He took a deep breath, trying to rein himself in. </p><p>	The kebab shop didn’t look like anything special, either inside or outside. A faded light-up menu board above the counter displayed various platters and shwarma meal deals. The middle-aged man who took their order gave Jon a little nod, the sort of acknowledgement that a middle-eastern owner of a kebab shop gives another visibly middle-eastern person. It was the kind of nod that said, “I’ll give you the real menu, don’t worry about it.” Martin watched it play out with a bit of envy. He wasn’t a regular anywhere, even in shops he went into all the time. Just a forgettable face really. Martin’s was the kind of face that inspired chinese restaurant servers to just go ahead and give him a fork instead of chopsticks, and for the owner of a Lebanese restaurant the halve the amount of spice in his dish on sight. </p><p>	“Baba Shawarma?” The man behind the counter asked, as Jon approached the register.</p><p>	“Actually,” Jon turned and addressed Martin over his shoulder, “Would you like a combination? We could split it, it comes with kibbeh and sfiha.”</p><p>	“Sounds nice!” Martin said, even though he had no idea what any of that food actually was. </p><p>	Jon went ahead and ordered, and the two of them took a seat in a booth at the corner of the shop. Martin sipped his water, tearing the paper of his straw wrapper into a million tiny pieces so he would have something to do with his hands. Jon looked exhausted, as he always did, but his dark eyes and the circles under them looked particularly lovely to Martin at that moment. His gaunt features cast shadows in interesting ways. Martin wanted to write a poem about that bone structure, then and there, but obviously resisted the urge. </p><p>	“Martin,” Jon began, folding his hands in front of him in quite a serious way, “I wanted to ask you… when we were in there, doing the interview, you apologized for me.” </p><p>	“Oh.” Martin froze up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to speak for you…”</p><p>	“No… I think, I think it was the right thing to do but I never would have thought to do it. If I’d been there by myself I think… I think the whole thing would have gone quite badly wrong.” </p><p>	“Well.” Martin shrugged, “I know you don’t really like her channel, and I got the sense that she was a bit defensive about it. So I just thought, I’d let her know we take her seriously and maybe she’d feel more comfortable speaking to us.”</p><p>	“Was I…” Jon paused, expression grim, “Was it quite obvious that I disliked her show?”</p><p>	Martin let out a little snort of laughter before realized Jon was serious.</p><p>	“Oh, Jon, I mean, you weren’t exactly… hiding it? Like… at all?”</p><p>	“I see.” Jon’s brow furrowed, and Martin struggled to think of what to say, but fortunately their food arrived which gave them both a distraction. Everything smelled fantastic, sizzling meat served over well seasoned rice, sides of hummus and baba ganoush. Martin picked up what looked like a small meat pie with pine nuts sprinkled on it. Jon began to split the food up between them. </p><p>	“I think that there are certain scenarios where I… where I think that I am behaving in a tactful way, but it turns out that in fact, I am not.” Jon sighed and used a warm bit of pita to pull some chicken off of a kebab. </p><p>	Martin’s heart broke for Jon. </p><p>	“It happens to all of us!” He protested.</p><p>	“No, not the way it happens to me.” Jon admitted. “Georgie used to complain about it sometimes, at uni, that I was being rude to people. I always thought she was exaggerating or reading too much into things. I’m worried now that perhaps I was not reading quite enough into things.”</p><p>	“I always read too much into things.” Martin said. The next sentence began to spill out of him before he could think better of it. “I, erm, my mum can be rather a difficult person so it, well, I learned to pick up on people’s moods. I sort of had to, you see, her mood could shift so quickly, I had to be able to pick up on the little signs and do my best to put out the fires before they, you know, exploded.” </p><p>	“Do you do that with me?” Jon asked, an expression of real concern washing over his face.</p><p>	“I do it with everyone!” Martin confessed. It was true, he was the sort of person who would choose his seat on the train based off of how convenient it might be for the hypothetical person getting on 10 stops down the line.</p><p>“Martin, please promise me, if you ever begin to feel that you must behave a certain way so that I don’t lose my temper, tell me to fuck right off.”</p><p>	Martin laughed.</p><p>	“I don’t know about that, you might fire me…”</p><p>	“I wouldn’t, honestly.” Jon answered. “I don’t want to be that sort of person, but I’m afraid that I very easily could be. Last week, when Gerry said that I was rude to you…”</p><p>	“Oh, that was nothing!”</p><p>	“No, it was something, Martin, and I just wanted to apologize. I can be a prick when people do things differently to how I would do them, and you, very frequently, do things differently than I would.” </p><p>	“Yeah I suppose I’ve noticed that.” Martin said. “I’m sorry…”</p><p>	“You don’t have to apologize, I’m trying to apologize.” Jon snapped. Martin held his tongue, but inwardly he snickered. Jon let out a deep sigh and picked up a grape leaf. “Thank you for all of your work. I’m… I’m glad you’re doing these interviews with me.” </p><p>	“Not at all Jon.” Martin said, with a small smile. “I enjoy it.” </p><p>~*~</p><p>	Sasha, who was at home with a panel show on in the background undoing about 8 rows of a knitting project to fix a dropped stitch, noticed that she had missed about 7 text messages. This was unusual; she very rarely received text messages. The last one, she saw, was from Tim.</p><p>	“Did Martin text you? This is getting out of hand.” It read.</p><p>	Sasha laughed and looked through the older messages. They were all from Martin.</p><p>	“Emergency, Jon told me he’s bad at people and now I want to stroke his little head and tell him everything is all right. Extremely inappropriate, plz help” Martin had texted at about 8pm.</p><p>	“Also Jon may be my therapist now? I told him about my mum and now I feel 45% more well adjusted? Again SOS I am a wreck” </p><p>	About 20 minutes later he had texted:</p><p>	“Just drank three Strongbows and am now convinced I have embarrassed myself with Jon and need to quit immediately.”</p><p>	“Jon is a SWEET MAN what do!??”</p><p>	“He’s so good.”</p><p>	“Sasha, Tim is mean, plz help”</p><p>	Sasha dialed Tim immediately. He picked up after half a ring, which was impressive considering the volume of the music playing wherever he was. </p><p>	“You’re right.” Sasha said, by way of greeting, “Martin needs help.”</p><p>	“He just spent 20 minutes crying to me about how beautiful Jon’s ex-girlfriend was and how Jon only deserves the best and he tries so hard.” Tim said. </p><p>	“Hold on, Jon has an ex-girlfriend?” </p><p>	“Yes! Her name is George or something and Martin just recited me a poem he, Martin, wrote about her freckles! He needs to snap out of whatever this is before he hurts himself!” </p><p>	“Are you calling me from a club?” Sasha asked, loudly over whatever electronic music was playing behind Tim.</p><p>	“Where else would I be on a Friday, Sasha, keep up. What are we going to do about Martin?” </p><p>	“We definitely need to talk him down before they go on that overnight trip next week.”</p><p>	“FUCKING HELL I FORGOT ABOUT THE OVERNIGHT TRIP.” Tim sounded utterly horrified.</p><p>	“Poor little Martin, he may actually die.” Sasha said.</p><p>	“Not if I can help it.” Tim said. “Where are you?”</p><p>	“Oh, um, at a pub.” Sasha lied, turning the volume down so David Mitchell cracking wise on television wouldn’t give her away.</p><p>	“Well, think about it over your next pint. G’night Sasha.”</p><p>	“Night, Tim.” Sasha said, and hung up the phone. When she had first begun work at the library of the Magnus Institute she had had a massive crush on Tim. It had faded over time, they really weren’t a good match, but she still had a deep seated need for Tim to think she was cool. </p><p>	She picked up her phone and tried to think of something to say to Martin to talk him down.</p><p>	“You are too good and sweet for Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood.” She texted. “You deserve someone better.” </p><p>	Martin stared at his phone, lying in bed, waiting for the buzz from his three ciders to wear off a bit. He couldn’t think of anything he could text to Sasha that could make her understand; Martin didn’t need anyone better than Jonathan Sims. Jonathan Sims was doing his best, and that was all that Martin ever wanted. He put his phone down and sighed, staring at his ceiling and just letting himself feel what he was feeling.</p><p>	“<i>fuck.</i>” He whispered.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Mogwai-Esque</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin did not own a car, issues with his mother’s care always seemed to eat any extra money he had so it was simply out of the question. Despite never really needing one,  Jon at some point in his life had picked up a dark green Vauxhall astra which mostly sat untouched in his flat’s parking garage. He’d actually had to clean a film of dust off the dashboard and tidy up a few old receipts and loose change to prepare for his and Martin’s “road trip.” He left the flat about 4:15am, to pick up Martin at his flat at 4:30, so they could make it to Cornwall on time for a 10AM interview. A fortnight ago he may have asked Martin to meet him at the Institute in the morning, not wanting to overstep their professional boundaries. Now, however, Jon felt a little thrill of intimacy as he pulled up in front of Martin’s building. He was picking up a friend. At his home. </p><p>	Martin hopped into the passenger’s side of Jon’s car with a friendly smile and two large insulated mugs.</p><p>	“I made tea.” He said. “Thought you’d need it for the drive.”</p><p>	“Thank you, Martin!” Jon said. He’d actually planned on stopping at a cafe on their way out of the city, but decided not to bring it up. Martin’s gesture was too kind.</p><p>	“I also packed some snacks for the road.” Martin pulled out some flapjacks and a bag of dried mango. Jon remembered vaguely mentioning something about liking dried mango about two and half years ago as part of some break room conversation, but surely Martin didn’t remember that? Jon smiled appreciatively.</p><p>	Traffic wasn’t too bad getting out of London. Soon the clutter of buildings began to space out a bit, and deep green English fields began to take up more of the landscape. Their silence was, for the most part, comfortable. Small talk at that hour would have been more insufferable than anything else. </p><p>	“Do you listen to much music?” Martin asked, after finishing about half of his tea. </p><p>	“Oh, would you like to listen to some?” Jon asked. They still had about three hours to drive, music was a reasonable request.</p><p>	“No, no! Just curious. I mean, unless you would like to listen to some music?” Martin asked.</p><p>	“I’ve been told my music taste is pretentious.” Jon said. </p><p>	“By who? Georgie?” Martin asked. </p><p>	“Among others.” Jon admitted. “I have a weakness for the kind of songs that go on for 16 minutes and have endless, nonsensical titles.” </p><p>	“Like what?”</p><p>	“Erm…” Jon tried to think of a particularly egregious example. “I used to be quite fond of a band called ‘Godspeed You! Black Emperor’” he admitted. “Georgie thought they were insufferable.” </p><p>	Martin laughed. </p><p>	“What, were they like, metal?”</p><p>	“No of course not, more like… oh I don’t know. Mogwai-esque?” </p><p>	Martin nodded, but didn’t say anything else. Jon was suddenly sure Martin had no idea who Mogwai was but didn’t want to admit it, so he decided to change the subject.</p><p>	“What kind of music do you like, Martin?” Jon asked.</p><p>	“Well, when you said the thing about long titles, I’m quite fond of Fiona Apple.” Martin said. “She’s got some album titles that erm… go on for a bit.” </p><p>	“She does, doesn’t she?” Jon said, with a laugh.</p><p>	“Were you the sort of person who went to see bands play at pubs every weekend at uni?” Martin asked. </p><p>	“Not at all.” Jon said. “More like, I would listen to music with my headphones in so I didn’t have to hear whatever drivel my housemates were prattling on about that week.” </p><p>	“I see.” Martin said. He didn’t finish with “Sounds about right,” but it was implied. </p><p>	“What were you like at uni?” Jon asked. “I expect the parapsychology department’s social vibe was a bit different from library sciences?”</p><p>	Martin let out an odd laugh that could really only be described as “highly suspicious.” </p><p>	“Yes, erm, certainly. We’re an odd bunch, parapsychologists.” </p><p>	Jon waited for Martin to continue, but instead of elaborating Martin stuffed about half of a flapjack in his mouth and began chewing furiously. After a few moments it was clear that Martin had no intention of continuing the conversation, so Jon just let it sit. They were more than capable of sharing a comfortable silence.</p><p>	About an hour later Jon pulled into a petrol station to fill up the tank. Martin left the car to use the toilet and take a look at whatever snacks the convenience store might have to offer. He apologized multiple times (for nothing) to Jon as he exited the car, and very nearly forgot to take his coat and wallet with him inside. This behavior was unsettlingly more like the bumbling Martin that Jon had used to take for granted than the friendly, extremely competent Martin Jon had come to know during the past pleasant few weeks. Jon inwardly decided that when Martin came back he’d make more of an effort with the conversation, try to make his assistant more comfortable. </p><p>	After filling up the tank Jon parked in one of the spaces in front of the convenience store’s exit, hoping that Martin wouldn’t be able to miss it when he stepped outside. As he sat there, waiting, a nice looking silver Aston Martin pulled up needlessly close beside him. Jon scowled at the driver, a stout, Asian woman, who stepped out of the car without paying him any mind. </p><p>	Martin finally exited the store about three minutes later with a sheepish smile and a bag full of god-knows-what snack. Jon smiled back, honestly happy to see him. </p><p>	Martin squeezed along the the side of the Aston Martin to the passenger’s side door, carefully opening it the full 10 centimeter extent that he could to try to slip back inside.</p><p>	“Some idiot parked me in, I’m sorry…” Jon began to apologize as Martin attempted to contort his way back into the car.</p><p>	“OY!” The owner of the Aston Martin burst out of the convenience store, eyes ablaze. “Are you touching my car?” </p><p>	“I’m… well yes?” Martin attempted to answer. There was no way for him to fit in the space between without making some sort of contact with hers, it was physically impossible. “I’m just trying to…”</p><p>	“If you’ve scratched my paint, I swear to god, I’ll rip your eyes out.” She growled. </p><p>	“NOW HOLD ON.” Jon was out of the car before Martin could answer, slamming the door and pointing an accusing finger at the woman. “Leave him alone, you’re the one who parked a centimeter away from me!” </p><p>	“Who the fuck are you?” The woman asked. </p><p>	“The person who’s car you nearly scraped up because you parked like a wanker.” Jon snapped. </p><p>	“Jon!” Martin protested. “Please, it’s fine…”</p><p>	“Did you just… call me a wanker?” The woman slowly turned, fists clenching and unclenching, a threatening smile spreading across her face.</p><p>	“He didn’t mean it.” Martin said.</p><p>	“Shut up, Martin, I certainly meant it.” Jon repeated, looming over the much smaller woman. </p><p>	Physically, honestly, if it came down to it, the two of them were probably well matched for a fist fight. The woman was small, yes, but she was clearly strong, her muscle mass easily double Jon’s. A striking tattoo, visible on her back, of a man burning, made it quite clear that this was a woman who meant business.</p><p>	On a purely societal level, though, a man as tall as Jon, bearing down on a small Asian woman, looked pretty bad. Jon was a beanpole, sure, but still, what was he about to do? Hit a woman? Martin tried to scoot out so that he could calm things down. </p><p>	“HOLD ON.” A dark skinned woman, she looked Sri Lankan? Maybe? Emerged from the convenience store and snapped at the three of them. She was wearing a police uniform and a simple black hijab. “What’s all this, then?” She asked, like some sort of cartoon policeman. </p><p>	“This woman accosted my friend for no reason.” Jon hissed at the police officer, not breaking eye contact with the woman before him.</p><p>	“This man’s bloody mental!” The woman said, although there was more mockery than fear in her voice. </p><p>	“Look.” The police officer gave both of them a stern squint. “This is what’s about to happen. You’re both going to settle down. You.” She pointed at Jon. “Are you ready to leave?” </p><p>	“Yes.” Jon said. “Once my friend gets in the car.” </p><p>	“You, friend.” The police woman addressed Martin directly. He could read her name badge, it read “HUSSAIN.’ </p><p>	“Yes?” Martin answered. </p><p>	“Get in the car.” Hussain ordered.</p><p>	“Yes ma’am.” Martin complied to the best of his ability, although the very little amount of space he had to actually maneuver caused the process to take an almost comically long time. Officer Hussain stared at him for a full minute as he shimmied and twisted his way into the vehicle. </p><p>	Jon and the tattooed woman continued to stand off against one another, like two cats posturing in an empty car park. </p><p>	“Now you, fuck off.” Hussain said to Jon. </p><p>	“Gladly.” Jon muttered, slowly backing away and getting into the drivers’ seat. Martin clutched his bag of sweets tight as Jon backed slowly out of the car park and made their way back on the road. </p><p>	He only managed to remain quiet for about 5 minutes. </p><p>	“For fuck’s sake, Jon!” Martin said, voice a full register higher than usual. </p><p>	“Yes?” Jon answered, still fuming. </p><p>	“Was all that really necessary?” </p><p>	“That woman…” Jon growled. “Well, she was in the wrong.” </p><p>	“Yes, so what… were you going to fight her? Were you going to knock out some woman at a petrol station? What was your end strategy there Jon? What were you going to accomplish?”</p><p>	“She was… so rude!” Jon muttered.</p><p>	Martin let out a little laugh.</p><p>	“That was utterly mad.” </p><p>	“Was it?” Jon’s tone had softened somewhat, he wasn’t driving with every muscle clenched like he was trying to rip the steering wheel off the console. </p><p>	“Can you imagine… what would I say to Mr. Fairchild if you’d actually started a real row? ‘I’m sorry, my supervisor just assaulted a tiny woman at a petrol station. We’ll collect your statement when he’s out of prison.’” </p><p>	Jon began to snicker a bit at that. </p><p>	“I guess I wasn’t really thinking…”</p><p>	“You can’t just do things like that, Jon! You’ve got to think!” </p><p>	“It’s fine…” Jon tried to wave it off.</p><p>	“I don’t know what that was, but it certainly wasn’t fine.” Martin, still wound up, finally began to laugh a little bit. Jon, to Martin’s great surprise, joined him, and for the next few miles both of then were laughing with a kind of nervous hysteria which probably made Jon’s driving somewhat unsafe.</p><p>~*~</p><p>	The interview could have gone better. Simon Fairchild was talkative, certainly, but both of them left the room as though they were the ones who had just endured some kind of supernatural encounter, or had one inflicted upon them. </p><p>	They had booked a hotel, planning to get some of the preliminary work done and resting to avoid a ten hour car ride for a two hour long interview. After spending an afternoon catching up on emails, doing some early transcription and writing up some notes for Sasha and Tim to follow up on, Jon and Martin went out together for a quick dinner.</p><p>	It was a pleasant evening. They mostly chatted about work; Jon had a lot of opinions about the usablity of oral histories as primary accounts which he seemed to enjoy sharing at length. Martin enjoyed listening, although his mind wandered from time to time to how righteously furious Jon had looked that morning at the Petrol Station. It had been stupid, certainly, but there was something attractive about the way Jon had thrown himself into that situation, all self-preservation and reason tossed aside in an instant. Jon looked attractive at dinner as well, his dark eyes were bright and animated as he spoke, and he flashed a rare, bright smile from time to time that gave Martin a little thrill. </p><p>	By the time their server returned with the check it was only 8pm. Jon looked almost disappointed that the evening was coming to an end, he checked his watch and glanced up at Martin.</p><p>	“It’s, erm, still a bit early. I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine, somewhere, unless you would prefer to call it a night?” Jon suggested, voice somewhat… delicate? Cautious? Martin felt his cheeks grow warm. </p><p>	“I’d love a glass of wine.” He said. </p><p>	After roaming the streets for a little while they wound up in a dark, much too expensive cafe. Jon actually flinched at the prices of the drinks before Martin assured him it was all right, and they sat together at the corner of the bar. Martin finished his first glass of wine with a speed that could only be explained by anxiety, but he found the alcohol blessedly dulled the edges of his nervous tension. The bartender supplied him with a refill almost immediately. </p><p>	Jon, tongue loosened slightly by his large glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, finally began to talk about something not related to work.</p><p>	“You never answered me, earlier, what sort of music did you listen to, at uni? I can’t imagine you were as much of a sad-sack as I was.” Jon said. </p><p>	Martin choked on his wine. </p><p>	“You can’t have been that bad!” He protested.</p><p>	“Honestly I was almost certainly worse than whatever you’re imagining.” Jon said. “But what were you like?”</p><p>	Martin took a deep breath and then made eye contact with Jon, tilting his head slightly.</p><p>	“What do you think I was like?” He asked. It was the closest thing to an outright flirtation he had yet attempted, and the thrill of it nearly killed him.</p><p>	“Hm.” Jon eyed him appraisingly, making Martin blush even pinker. “I’m going to bet you listened to whatever was on the radio but never learned any of the song or artist names, so you can’t ever find anything that you liked later, but when it comes on you go ‘Oh! That’s quite nice!’” </p><p>	“Well, all right!” Martin laughed out loud. “That’s a bit too accurate, thanks!” </p><p>	“Was that mean?” Jon asked, suddenly apologetic. “I didn’t mean it to be mean!” </p><p>	“No, you’re fine!” Martin laughed, finishing his second glass of wine with a smile. A pleasant buzz of alcohol now making his thoughts fuzzy and unfocused. Everything felt blissfully less fraught than it had a half-hour ago. “Actually, Jon, I have to tell you something.” He rubbed his forehead.</p><p>	Jon looked at him, expression quizzical. Martin ached for him, he looked so beautiful.</p><p>	“I erm, I didn’t actually go to uni. I don’t have a degree in parapsychology. I lied on my CV.”<br/>
Martin held his breath for Jon’s response.</p><p>	Jon narrowed his eyes, face shifting into an expression of inexplicable triumph.</p><p>	“I knew it.” He said, relishing each word. “I TOLD Elias there was no way you had a parapsychology degree.” </p><p>	“Look, I needed the money, my mum’s quite sick…”</p><p>	“Oh Martin, I don’t mind. I mean, sometimes you would make mistakes that made me extremely skeptical about your qualifications, but frankly a degree in parapsychology is mostly nonsense anyway. If you’ve proven anything these past few weeks its that you are a competent researcher and valuable employee.” Jon smiled pleasantly. “And if Elias has to pay you more because you made up a degree then, that’s just fine. You deserve it.” </p><p>	Martin felt as though a weight which had been crushing him had just lifted. He’d gotten so used to carrying that particular secret that it didn’t even occur to him how pleasant it might be to cast it off. </p><p>	The clock hit 11pm much more quickly than either of them expected it to, and finally Martin and Jon began to make their way back to the hotel. The evening was warm and fresh after a recent rain, and Martin felt a kind of hum of pleasant anticipation in the air. Yes, it was a work trip, and yes, the man next to him was his boss and not his date, but still. The other people out in the streets around them all seemed to be having a pleasant evening, and Martin couldn’t help but feel like he was one of them. A passerby wouldn’t know that he and Jon were NOT a couple, and that thought filled him with a guilty kind of joy. All he wanted was for Jon to place an arm around his shoulders and pull him alongside him, to show some kind of affection, but of course that was out of the question.</p><p>	Jon did give Martin a smile, though, as they walked, and Martin returned it bashfully.</p><p>	When they arrived back at the hotel they continued chatting all the way down the hall to Martin’s room, where Jon paused.</p><p>	“Here we are I suppose. Sleep well, Martin.” Jon said, smiling with warmth at his assistant and turning to leave.</p><p>	“W-wait!” Martin protested. Jon turned back around, head cocked, expression curious. </p><p>	Martin had no idea what he was going to say. Invite Jon in for a nightcap? Impossible, completely inappropriate. Lie and pretend Jon had forgotten something? He tried to think of some sort of question that would justify him asking Jon to wait, but his mind went completely blank, nothing but static and noise and panic. </p><p>	“Do you…” Jon broke the silence first, eyes drinking in Martin’s panicked expression. He looked thoughtful, and took a slow step forward. “Do you want me to kiss you?” Jon asked, like he was solving some sort of puzzle. </p><p>	“I… Yes?” Martin squeaked, buzzing in every nerve. At this point, alcohol be-damned, he was a tightly wound ball of pure anxiety. </p><p>	Jon let out a little exhale of breath at that, and for a moment Martin panicked that he was going to turn away, report him for a serious breach of professionalism. </p><p>	But instead, Jon simply leaned forward and gave Martin a gentle but decisive kiss on the lips. His lips were warm and soft, and Martin let out a little shocked hum at the touch, before Jon pulled back.</p><p>	“I… would you like to…?” Martin whispered, glancing towards the door to his room.</p><p>	“I think I’d better go to bed.” Jon said, tone suddenly nervous. He took a few steps back. “Erm, yes, I think I had better…. Good night, Martin.” Jon turned and walked briskly away down the hall, leaving Martin standing next to his hotel room door, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open, and utterly horrified.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Real Angst Hours</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(my lovely readers can have little a extra chapter... as a treat)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon lay under the stifling weight of the hotel duvet, sinking into his too-soft hotel bed and staring at the ceiling for hours. The drone and intermittent clanking noise of the air conditioner was the only distraction from his thoughts.</p><p>	He’d kissed Martin. Why the <i>fuck</i> had he kissed Martin?</p><p>	He rolled over into a small ball on his side, a position he’d never successfully fallen asleep in but he’d found to be quite good for thinking. </p><p>	To be fair, Martin had certainly wanted the kiss to happen. It wasn’t as though he had forced a kiss on his assistant. Jon <i>had</i> been the one to bring it up, though, when he’d looked at Martin’s lovely round face and, in that rarest of moments for him, realized that something was happening there. It had been “a moment.”</p><p>	Of course the one time in his life that he successfully picked up on “a moment” it happened to be an illegal instance of sexual harassment that could lose him his job. Well done, Jon, really nailed that one. </p><p>	He remembered the soft, almost thrilling sensation of Martin’s lips against his. Jon wasn’t the type of person to stay up late at night imagining all sorts of kisses and physical acts with people he barely knew, but this one had been nice. Very gentle. He had enjoyed it. </p><p>	That, of course, was concerning. It took rather a lot for Jon Sims to enjoy a kiss. At some point in secondary school Jon had realized that everyone around him was acting in what he interpreted as an incomprehensibly bizarre way because they were all experiencing a heightened degree of sexual attraction to which he was somehow immune. He had adored Georgie, loved their time together, loved her smile, their conversations, her presence, but the sex? He could absolutely take it or leave it. He didn’t hate the sex, or anything, it just frankly felt like a lot of work for very little payoff. He knew that to some people that made him sound absolutely mad, so he didn’t exactly wear his asexuality on his sleeve. </p><p>	If he enjoyed something like a kiss, it was because he had strong feelings for the person in question. Sex for sex’s sake had never appealed to him, but he wasn’t altogether immune to romance. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he might have feelings like that for Martin. Or that Martin could have feelings like that for…</p><p>	“<i>Fuck!</i>” Jon said aloud, rolling over to his other side in dismay. </p><p>	A mental catalogue of kind words, cups of tea, helpful gestures, lingering glances, cups of tea, purchases of lunch, friendly greetings, even more cups of tea, all began to scroll through Jon’s memory with new, heightened meaning. He was a fool. </p><p>	Elias had probably seen it, that was probably why he’d put the two of them together in the bloody MOU. </p><p>	Jon groaned and lay flat out on the bed, tearing off the top comforter to cool down, even as the air conditioning continued to whine.</p><p>	Once again, he tried to piece together the situation in which he had found himself.</p><p>	He and Martin were working together on an oral history project which required their teamwork.</p><p>	Martin apparently fancied him.</p><p>	He had… some as yet undeciphered positive (protective? perhaps? <span class="small">possibly romantic??</span>) feelings towards Martin.</p><p>	They had shared one (1) chaste kiss in a hotel hallway.</p><p>	When he spelled everything out like that it didn’t feel quite so overwhelming. Sure, the situation was not ideal, but it was far from unmanageable. The most important thing was that he and Martin talk this out, get everything out in the open. They needed to continue to work together, successfully, and there was no reason that what happened in the hallway made that impossible. </p><p>	He decided on a course of action. Tomorrow he and Martin would go out to breakfast together and really talk this out. Whatever emotional thing was happening between them was certainly real, and significant, and the best way to stop it from killing their grant funded oral history project dead was to talk it out.</p><p>	Jon’s mind began to slow. His breathing calmed. The noise of the air conditioner didn’t grate on his every nerve the way it had done all evening. </p><p>	Nothing was broken that couldn’t be fixed. He and Martin would have a nice breakfast tomorrow, and everything would be fine. He drifted off into a fitful sleep. He kept seeing Martin’s face, his kind, sweet face, every time he closed his eyes.</p><p>~*~</p><p>	The next morning Jon woke up to his alarm with bleary-eyed exhaustion. When he switched the light on he noticed a folded piece of paper on the floor. Assuming it was their bill, Jon went to pick it up. To his surprise it was a handwritten note. Martin must have slid it under the door sometime in the night, unnoticed.</p><p>	“Hello Jon, something came up back in London and I had to take the first train home this morning. My apologies, for everything. -Martin.”</p><p>	“God DAMN IT, Martin!” Jon growled, all of his plans for reconciliation draining away before his eyes. He crunched the note up and tossed it into the wastebasket. The gnawing feeling of dread which had nearly killed him the night before returned to the pit of his stomach. He dragged his suitcase out of the closet and began to stuff his belongings back into it. It was going to be long drive.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Momentum</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please note the rating change for this chapter! </p>
<p>If explicit content is not your thing, see the End Notes for where to stop reading.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun wasn’t exactly shining the Tuesday after Jon and Martin’s road trip, but it was a brightish grey London morning at the Magnus Institute. Tim sat at his desk, cursor hovering over a huge .WAV file saved to his storage drive. It was his third day transcribing Melanie King’s oral history, and he still had a solid 30 minutes of audio to finish typing, word for word, before he could move on to the next step. Depending on how clear the audio was, or how quickly Melanie spoke, that could take hours upon hours. After that he needed to go through the process of coding the text, coming up with terms for reoccurring themes and organizing those themes along with the other texts that Sasha had already finished transcribing. If you had asked Timothy Stoker what he would rather do at the moment, dive his face into a bucket of hot oil or open Melanie King’s .WAV file, he would have struggled with the correct answer. </p>
<p>	Jon stepped by his desk, holding two large thermoses.</p>
<p>	“Oh thanks boss, for me?” Tim chirped, removing his headphones, desperate for any distraction from work even if it was Jonathan Fucking Sims. </p>
<p>	“Oh, er… no. Tim. I’m, ah, actually trying to return Martin’s thermos. Jon glanced over at Martin’s conspicuously empty desk. “Have you seen him, today?” </p>
<p>	“Martin? No, I know he called out sick yesterday, he might still be ill.” Tim said. Sasha, from her desk on the other side of the room, looked up with an expression of concern.</p>
<p>	“Poor Martin, he never calls in.” Sasha said, giving Tim a meaningful look. “I hope he’s all right.” </p>
<p>	“I’m sure he’s fine.” Tim said. “I mean, he spoke to Elias right? Over the phone?” </p>
<p>	“Yes, it’s just… you know.” Sasha sort of pointedly glanced at Jon and then back at Tim. “I haven’t seen Martin since <i>the overnight trip.</i>”</p>
<p>	“Oh yeah!” Tim realized what Sasha was getting at. “Jon, you were the last person to see him, actually? Did he look sick?” Tim asked Jon, who suddenly looked very uncomfortable standing there with his oversized empty thermoses.</p>
<p>	“I… well…”</p>
<p>	“It’s just… Martin hasn’t responded to any of my texts since before he left.” Sasha pointed out.</p>
<p>	“Are you…” Jon’s eyebrows furrowed in a way that Martin, had he been present, would have found adorable. “Are you accusing me of murdering Martin?” </p>
<p>	“What?” Tim laughed. “NO!”</p>
<p>	“No, Jon, obviously…” Sasha sighed. “Never mind, I’m sure he’s just sick.”</p>
<p>	“No, hold on.” Jon looked back and forth between Sasha and Tim.  “What reason would either of you have to be concerned about Martin being on an overnight trip with me?” </p>
<p>	“It’s nothing, it’s fine.” Sasha backtracked. </p>
<p>	Realization struck Jon like a textbook to the face. </p>
<p>	“Goddamnit.” He said, slamming the thermoses down on Martin’s empty desk in exasperation. “Did <i>everyone</i> at the institute know but me?” </p>
<p>	“Know what?” Sasha asked, feigning innocence. </p>
<p>	“I didn’t put it together until Sasha told me, honestly.” Tim admitted. “I still don’t really understand it.”</p>
<p>	Jon groaned and buried his face in his hands. </p>
<p>	“What happened on the trip?” Sasha asked, too curious to resist.</p>
<p>	“Nothing, nothing happened. Honestly, it’s none of your business…” Jon said, beginning to pace back and forth. </p>
<p>	“Did you rip his heart out and stamp on it all over the floor?” Tim asked, tone like a disappointed schoolteacher.</p>
<p>	“TIM!” Sasha said. </p>
<p>	“I… I got into a fight at a petrol station.” Jon said, trying to escape this conversation through any possible avenue.</p>
<p>	“You fought Martin in a petrol station?” Tim asked, confused.</p>
<p>	“No… I got into a fight with a small asian woman in a car park.” Jon attempted to clarify. “Martin was… upset.” </p>
<p>	“WHAT!?” Both Tim and Sasha asked at once. </p>
<p>	“It’s fine, you know what… I’m just going to drop these off at his place.” Jon took the thermoses and fled the scene, leaving Tim and Sasha seated at their desks, staring at one another in stunned silence.</p>
<p>	“Oh my god, they totally fucked.” Tim said.</p>
<p>	“I…” Sasha couldn’t quite believe it, but considering the absolute batshit nature of that entire exchange she couldn’t really deny it either. She tried to get back to work, but it was hard to focus.</p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	Georgie ate a large bite of Nutella directly from a spoon while leaning against her kitchen counter. She was taking a break from what had been an absolute terror of a podcast editing session. Back in college it would have been a smoke break, but over the years she had shifted her strategies for when she felt like a small indulgence in something self destructive. Nutella was cheaper than cigarettes anyway. She was scrolling through facebook, checking out Melanie King’s vacation pictures from a few years back, when a buzz made her jump. For the second time in as many weeks, she saw the name "Jon" on caller ID.</p>
<p>	“Hello?” She picked up, trying not to sound irritated.</p>
<p>	“Hello Georgie, I’m sorry to bother you, I just wanted to ask your advice on something.” Jon said. It was hard to hear him over all the street noise in the background.</p>
<p>	“Where are you?” She asked.</p>
<p>	“I’m…” In fact Jon was standing on the street outside Martin’s apartment. “It’s not important.” He answered.</p>
<p>	“Ok… what’s up?” She asked. </p>
<p>	“Well… do you remember Martin? My assistant?” Jon asked. “He was at the oral history session?”</p>
<p>	“Sure.” Georgie said, struggling to envision the man’s face. She remembered him as a largely generic white man. Now, Melanie… her face she remembered.</p>
<p>	“What did you think of him?” Jon asked.</p>
<p>	“Why? Is he a ghost?” Georgie asked.</p>
<p>	“Of course he’s not a ghost.” Jon snapped.</p>
<p>	“Because if he’s a ghost I’d love to have him on the podcast.” George teased.</p>
<p>	“He’s not a ghost. Ugh… well… it’s come to my attention that he fancies me.” Jon admitted.</p>
<p>	“Oh!” Georgie let out a little laugh. She really wished she remembered what he looked like a bit more, now. “Why?” </p>
<p>	“I’ve no clue, I thought I’d ask you, as you are the only other person I’ve ever met who has without question fancied me at one point in time.” </p>
<p>	“Wow, now THAT is a dubious honor.” Georgie answered, with a short laugh. “Wait, what are you asking me?”</p>
<p>	“Well, what should I do?” Jon asked. </p>
<p>	“That depends.” Georgie said, deciding she deserved another large bite of Nutella and scooping one out. “On a number of complicated variables. First: do you fancy him back?”</p>
<p>	“I think the first is whether or not it’s legal.” Jon said.</p>
<p>	“Yeah sure, but you didn’t call me to find that out.” Georgie countered.</p>
<p>	“Fine.” Jon admitted. “I… don’t know. If I fancy him or not… it’s, well… you know.” </p>
<p>	“If you don’t like him then you have to be honest with him about it.” Georgie said. “Otherwise you’ll just hurt him worse.” </p>
<p>	“I don’t want to hurt him.” Jon said.</p>
<p>	“And if you DO like him then I say go for it. You always overthink these things, Jon, it’s very annoying.” Georgie said. </p>
<p>	She had been the one to ask him out, at university. They’d been in the same friend group, but she had always thought he was something of a pompous ass, until they actually took an ethics course together. His answers to their professor’s questions shocked her in their vulnerability, he clearly always did the readings, and he’d treated their professor with the utmost respect. Then one night out drinking she’d seen him recklessly defend a poor karaoke singer against a table of bullies, and she’d decided to ask him out. </p>
<p>	“This hasn’t been particularly helpful, Georgie.” Jon said.</p>
<p>	“Well, I don’t know Martin very well. He seemed very sweet when we met, if it helps.” </p>
<p>	“I already know he’s sweet.” Jon said. “Maddeningly so, sometimes.” </p>
<p>	“Well, if the worst you can say about him is that he’s ‘too sweet’ then I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can tell you.” Georgie said. “Good luck.”</p>
<p>	“Thanks. I owe you one.” Jon said.</p>
<p>	“I’ll remember that.” Georgie said with a little laugh, and hung up.</p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	Jon struggled to hold on to both oversized thermoses as he knocked on Martin’s apartment door, feeling like a bit of a tit. He was still mentally deciding whether he should go along with Martin’s lie about being ill or not. If he went along with it it gave him a good opening line of questioning, which was a positive. But everything in him recoiled at supporting Martin’s cowardice in such a manner. </p>
<p>	The door opened, revealing a hale and healthy looking (if a bit fidgety) Martin Blackwood.</p>
<p>	“Hullo Jon.” Martin said, tone and expression forcefully blank. There was a kind of panicky desperation in his eyes, though, which even Jon was able to pick up on. </p>
<p>	“Hullo Martin.” Jon said, tone placating. “You left these in my car.” Jon held out the empty thermoses like a half-assed peace offering.</p>
<p>	“Oh. Erm, you could have given them to me at work?” Martin suggested.</p>
<p>	“You weren’t at work.” Jon said. He gestured to their surroundings. “Clearly.” </p>
<p>	Martin let out a deep sigh at that and rubbed one of his eyes in irritation. </p>
<p>	“I’ll be back in tomorrow, I’m out of mental health days.” He said. Strangely the two days Martin had spent hiding from his problems and stress-eating tinned peaches had left his mental health in worse shape from where it started. </p>
<p>	“Can I come in?” Jon asked.</p>
<p>	“Fine.” Martin said, opening the door and allowing Jon to step inside. His apartment was small, cluttered with mismatched furniture which he had clearly gathered from cheap online stores, rummage sales, and various friends.</p>
<p>	There were several moments of silence where Martin just stared at Jon, lovely Jon, now standing in this apartment as if that was something that was just allowed now. He half expected Jon to just hand over the thermoses and walk out the door, thus returning the world to its proper orbit and leaving Martin to agonize in peace. Jon made no move to do so. He had his foot in the door of Martin’s apartment and damned if he wasn’t going to have the conversation he came here to have.</p>
<p>	“So… Martin, I erm, wanted to speak with you…” Jon began, but he was interrupted by Martin’s phone beginning to ring. Martin glanced at it with an expression of irritation, looking like he was going to mute it, but he paused when he saw who was calling.</p>
<p>	“Hold on Jon, I’m so sorry, it’s my mum.” </p>
<p>	“Oh! Of course…” </p>
<p>	Martin answered the phone while making an apologetic gesture to Jon.</p>
<p>	“Hello? Mum?” He began to back away from Jon, but there was nowhere in the apartment to really retreat to. </p>
<p>	Jon wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, honestly, but the volume of the voice on other line was loud enough that he could pick up on the tone immediately. She didn’t sound happy.</p>
<p>	“Yeah… yeah I remember that bill coming through…” Martin stepped into his kitchen, rummaging through a large pile of junk mail on his desk. “I’m sure I paid it though…”</p>
<p>	The tone on the other line did not soften. </p>
<p>	“No… yes of course.” </p>
<p>	The voice was loud enough that Jon could make out a few words. “Idiot,” was one. “Unbelievable,” another. Jon stared fixedly at Martin’s floor, trying to block out the noise, to not pay attention. He began to root in his pockets for his own phone, so he could be more visibly distracted.</p>
<p>	“Oh… mum I found it.” Martin said in a soft, horrified tone. There was a rustling of papers, prompting another onslaught from the other line. “No, it’s not opened. I’ll pay it right away. I’m sorry mum.” </p>
<p>	Jon couldn’t help but look over, then. Martin was sitting at his very small kitchen table, forehead in his hands, holding an unopened envelope with a large red unfriendly looking stamp on the back. He was visibly holding back tears. </p>
<p>	“I don’t… that’s not fair, mum.” He said, softly, with a waver in his voice.</p>
<p>	Jon felt anxiety rise in his throat. He shouldn’t be here for this. And yet, he wasn’t going to leave. Martin needed him. Or, at the very least, Martin needed somebody on his side at that moment. And if there was one thing that Jon was immediately, completely, without any doubt certain of at that moment, it was that he was on Martin’s side. </p>
<p>	“I’ll pay it mum. I’m sorry. I know… I’m sorry.  I have to go. Love you.” Martin said the last two words in a soft, strangled voice. It was unclear to Jon whether the woman on the other line had hung up before Martin said them. Martin took a deep, shaky breath that Jon could hear all the way from where he was sitting. He was still keeping it together, but it wouldn’t take much to send it all crashing down.</p>
<p>	“Jon…” Martin said. “Do we have to have this conversation right now? It’s been.. rather a lot, today.” </p>
<p>	“I understand.” Jon stood up and walked over to where Martin was sitting. He took the seat opposite Martin at the table, and extended his hand. Martin glanced at it, uncomprehending for a moment. Jon met his eyes, and kept his hand where it was on the table. Martin, with a slow, cautious movement, took Jon’s hand in his. For a moment, they just sat there, holding hands and making eye contact. Jon felt a little electric thrill at Martin’s touch, which surprised him. </p>
<p>	“What… what did you come here to say to me?” Martin asked, staring at their entwined hands and then back up at Jon.</p>
<p>	“Do you… Are you sure? I thought you said you didn’t want to talk?” Jon asked, hesitantly. “You don’t have to.” </p>
<p>	“Yeah, but… I think I need something, yeah?” Martin said looking at their hands and then back up at Jon with a little confused laugh. </p>
<p>	“Oh! Well.” Jon tried to get his thought in order, and Martin pulled his hand back. Jon felt a sting of disappointment at losing the touch of his skin, and folded his hands awkwardly on his lap. Sitting across from one another like this felt like an interview or something. “I just wanted to let you know that I value our work relationship, immensely.” Jon began.</p>
<p>	Martin’s carefully calm expression shattered all at once.</p>
<p>	“No, sorry, I was wrong!” Martin babbled, “I can’t! I don’t think I can have this conversation right now.” He actually hid his face in his elbow on the table, letting out a small miserable whine. “Can we just pretend nothing ever happened? That’s best, right? Nothing happened, its fine, please lets go back to normal.” Martin said, voice almost completely muffled by his own arms. </p>
<p>	“I… is that what you want?” Jon asked the top of Martin’s head.</p>
<p>	“YES.” Martin looked up, eyes shining, expression beyond exhausted. “I mean, I think I’ve ruined it, whatever it was, but, before I wrecked it… it was… quite nice.” </p>
<p>	“You didn’t wreck anything, Martin. I kissed you.”</p>
<p>	“NO YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO PRETEND IT DIDN’T HAPPEN.” Martin protested, burying his face in his hands again, voice high and desperate. </p>
<p>	“MARTIN.” Jon snapped. Martin flinched. </p>
<p>	Jon extended his hand out on the table again. Martin, once again took it, cautiously, eyes rimmed with red and breath coming in uneven gasps.</p>
<p>	Jon, for reasons he could not have explained out loud, took up Martin’s hand in his. He stared at it for a long, quiet moment, before carefully raising it up to his mouth and gently kissing the other man’s knuckles. Martin gasped, but didn’t move. For a moment it was as though time itself had slowed, capturing them in a strange moment of unbearable intimacy. Jon savored the softness of Martin’s skin, and pressed his lips once again on his assistant’s hand.</p>
<p>	Martin stood up first, but in the scraping of chairs and the rustling of clothes and sudden movement neither of them were fully aware of all the details of what happened next. Martin was kissing Jon desperately, pulling at his hair and holding him with a possessive tightness that Jon matched in kind. Jon kissed back, opening his mouth and allowing a bit of tongue. </p>
<p>	Martin gently maneuvered Jon against the kitchen wall and began to press his whole body against him as they kissed. Jon arched his back as Martin leaned in and began to kiss down the sides of his neck.</p>
<p>	“God… Martin…” Jon whispered, astonished at his own physical response to this. </p>
<p>	“Are you all right?” Martin whispered, pulling back for a second. His lips were pink and his pupils were dilated and his hair was cute and mussed up. </p>
<p>	“I, erm, yes.” Jon said. He knew if he gave himself a moment to think about this all of the many reasons it was a terrible idea would become impossible to ignore. But if he just kept moving before the thinking started to happen it was truly remarkable what Jonathan Sims could accomplish. He grasped Martin's waist and pressed his hips into Martin’s, delighting in Martin’s expression of utter shocked bliss as he did so.</p>
<p>	“Is this…” Martin let out a little shocked giggle, “is this happening?” Martin asked, between kisses.</p>
<p>	“This is definitely happening, Martin. Might we… is there a bedroom?” Jon asked.</p>
<p>	Martin let out a little whimper at that and took Jon’s hand, leading him the very short distance to his bedroom. The room was almost too small for Martin’s queen size bed, which only made it easier for the two of them to fall onto it. Jon fell on his back, allowing Martin to climb on top of him, kissing him firmly into the pillows. </p>
<p>	“God, Jon. I’ve wanted this for so long.” Martin whispered.</p>
<p>	“Really?” Jon asked, laughing a little bit. “Me?!”</p>
<p>	“Don’t you start.” Martin silenced him with another kiss. </p>
<p>	Jon began to unbutton Martin’s shirt and Martin ripped it off before he could finish. Jon’s sweater vest proved more complicated, but the two of them managed to take it off with some awkward maneuvering and laughter. Jon was slight of frame and dark, compared to Martin’s pale, soft body. Martin’s eyes drank in Jon’s shape, vulnerable and beautiful. </p>
<p>	Martin leaned down again to kiss Jon, grinding into him. Jon could feel the heat of Martin’s erection through his trousers, and the sensation began to make him feel warm and tight inside. He hadn’t been this aroused in years. </p>
<p>	“Martin!’ He gasped, sitting up and holding up a hand. </p>
<p>	“Yes! What? Sorry!” Martin scrambled back, giving Jon some space. </p>
<p>	“No, don’t… I just… I just wanted to say it’s, erm, been a while? Since I’ve… you know…”</p>
<p>	“Had sex?” Martin said.</p>
<p>	“Yeah, exactly.” Jon said.</p>
<p>	“You want to stop?” Martin asked.</p>
<p>	“NO! Just… I mean, I’m probably going to be… I don’t know.” Jon blushed. “Not… very good at it.” </p>
<p>	“Oh shit.” Martin said, an expression of affectionate concern flickering over his face. “Is this your first time?”</p>
<p>	“No! Martin, I’m 31!”</p>
<p>	“Lots of people haven’t had sex until they’re thirty. Especially not, you know, same-sex people.” Martin pointed out. </p>
<p>	“Well I have.” Jon sort of huffed. He looked so cute as he did it Martin could just fucking die then and there. “It’s just… I’m asexual so I don’t.. seek it out particularly often.”</p>
<p>	“Oh.” Martin paused. He was familiar with the concept of asexuality but grappling with it while in bed with the man he’d lusted over for literal years was proving to be something of a strain. “Again, if you aren’t up for this we can definitely stop.” He assured Jon. </p>
<p>	“”Martin.” Jon closed the distance on the bed between them and placed his hand on the side of Martin’s face. Martin couldn’t help but let out a little sigh at the contact. Jon kissed Martin again, this time deep and slow. Martin melted into him, pressing him once again back down on the bed. “I want this.” Jon whispered, as Martin stroked the skin of his waist.</p>
<p>	Jon began to rub Martin’s dick through his pants, enjoying the sound of Martin’s breath hitching at his touch. “I’m up for it.” He repeated.</p>
<p>	Martin kissed Jon’s lips, his jaw, his neck, and his torso. He stopped and kissed Jon’s nipples, which made Jon gasp from the sensation. He went even lower, undoing Jon’s fly and pulling down his trousers and undergarments. Jon lay on the bed before him, completely nude, breathing deeply, visibly aroused. </p>
<p>	Martin began to stroke Jon’s cock, glancing up at to make eye contact as he did so. </p>
<p>	“May I?” He asked.</p>
<p>	“GOD, YES.” Jon groaned. Again, it had been some time. </p>
<p>	Martin put his mouth around the tip of Jon’s cock and began to bob his head up and down, using his hand to stroke the length of it while playing with the tip with his tongue. Jon groaned despite himself, lost in the sensation of Martin’s mouth. Martin sped up up a bit, egged on by Jon’s noises of approval, gripping the penis more firmly and deftly with his hands and taking Jon deeper into his throat.</p>
<p>	“Martin!” Jon gasped. “I’m… Martin… GOD.” Jon began to babble, and Martin only pressed his tongue more firmly against Jon’s dick, twisting his head a bit to maximize the sensation. Martin was hardly a Casanova, but he did take a bit of pride in his blowjobs. </p>
<p>	Jon came with a surprised shudder, and Martin sucked him through the orgasm, smiling with satisfaction as he sat up, wiping his mouth.</p>
<p>	“Jesus… Martin.” Jon muttered. </p>
<p>	“Are you all right?” Martin asked, crawling up next to Jon. Jon pulled him into a deep, warm, appreciative kiss. </p>
<p>	“Can… can I?” Jon asked, beginning to undo Martin’s fly.</p>
<p>	“Only if you want to.” Martin said.</p>
<p>	But Jon had already begun to stroke Martin’s cock again and Martin closed his eyes, overwhelmed at the sensation. He’d fantasized about this before, of course. Sometimes when he was alone in bed, the thought of Jon whisking him into some corner of the archive and making furious love to him would just spring up unbidden, leaving Martin aroused, frustrated, and weak. And now, with Jon stroking him greedily, licking his palm for wetness and working on his erection, Martin could scarcely function. He came in an embarrassingly short amount of time, he’d never had a chance. </p>
<p>	The two of them clung to one another, afterwards, limbs flung across limbs, breathing heavily and stroking each other’s skin. </p>
<p>	“God, what time is it?” Jon eventually asked, stretching out on the bed. </p>
<p>	Martin glanced at the clock.</p>
<p>	“Jesus Christ, it’s only 4!” He said with a laugh. “That’s so early, you don’t… I mean… if you want to go home…” </p>
<p>	“Well I’m not going back to work if that’s what you’re thinking.” Jon answered.</p>
<p>	“Oh my god.” Martin held in a little peal of laughter. “No, just… you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”</p>
<p>	“I…” Jon looked at Martin, trying to get a read on what was happening here. “I would like to stay, if you’ll have me.”</p>
<p>	Martin’s expression radiated such happiness that Jon felt his heart flutter.</p>
<p>	“Of course I’ll have you, Jon.” He answered.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you would like to skip the explicit content, stop reading at the line "Martin stood up first, but in the scraping of chairs..." or just when the kissing starts. </p>
<p>Thank you for reading! Hope everyone is staying safe during this quarantine!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. We Love Nonsense</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello friends, it's been a DAY HASN'T IT!?!? HOW ABOUT THAT SEASON 5 TRAILER HUH!?</p>
<p>I don't know about you but I'm in the mood for some MOTHERFUCKING FLUFF</p>
<p>SO GET READY FOR IT KIDS!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon didn’t end up spending the night at Martin’s, although he did stay to order a pizza, which they shared over a few ciders while they chatted and laughed about the absurdity of their situation. The impending Wednesday kept threatening their peace of mind, and Jon eventually gave in and admitted he would like to return home so that he could go to work the next day in fresh clothes. Martin didn’t protest at all—it was certainly understandable—but neither of them could prevent their kiss goodbye in the doorway from feeling somewhat ominous. </p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	The first thing in the entire oral history team’s inbox the next morning was a request for a meeting with Elias, at 10:30 am. It was unlike Elias to give them only an hour and a half preparation for a meeting, but they all knew he could see their shared digital work calendar, so none of them could pretend they had any other obligations. Sasha raised her eyebrows as she clicked “attending,” however, and glanced over at Martin. </p>
<p>	Martin, after his long absence, had been even more painfully polite than usual, bringing everyone tea and apologizing for his inconvenient illness. The slightly frenzied nature of his manner had prevented either Tim of Sasha for confronting him directly about what had happened with Jon, but the two of them sent one another gossipy chats over their email direct messaging service all morning. </p>
<p>	“They definitely fucked. Look at him, the poor darling.” Tim wrote.</p>
<p>	“There is no visible way to determine whether or not they fucked, Tim.” Sasha replied. “What do you think about this meeting with Elias?”</p>
<p>	“OH it is ABSOLUTELY about the fucking. We’re all going to have to sign chastity agreements or something.” </p>
<p>	“There’s no such thing as a chastity agreement.” Sasha typed. A thought occurred to her, and she quickly added, “Although we may have some belts in the artifact room.”</p>
<p>	“Kinky, Sasha! I’m printing this chat thread out and bringing it to Elias in the meeting. Consider yourself fired.”</p>
<p>	“Damn it, Tim.” Sasha responded, smothering a laugh. </p>
<p>	Martin glanced up from his monitor and looked back and forth at Tim and Sasha, who were both typing in sporadic bursts that suspiciously did not resemble transcription.</p>
<p>	“Fuck, he’s onto us.” Tim typed.</p>
<p>	“Act natural.” Sasha responded.</p>
<p>	At that point Jon’s office door opened and he leaned into their shared office. </p>
<p>	“Good morning, um, everyone.” He said, with the carefree and natural ease of a malfunctioning robot.</p>
<p>	It was the first time Jon had ever wished them a good morning. Tim and Sasha locked eyes. </p>
<p>	“HULLO.” Martin said, voice a full register higher than usual (which was already pretty damn high).</p>
<p>	“M-Martin, may I speak with you in my office for a moment?” Jon asked. </p>
<p>	“Erm, sure.” Martin was up and out, whisked away behind Jon’s door in a matter of seconds. Jon slammed the door shut behind them decisively.</p>
<p>	“GOOD LORD.” Tim actually said out loud. </p>
<p>	“Well, we know Jon didn’t murder him, anyway.” Sasha said, taking a sip of the tea Martin brought her. It was fucking delicious. </p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	Jon and Martin sat across from one another at Jon’s desk, tense as anything. It was the opposite of the perfect intimacy of the kitchen table that had taken place the previous day. Jon’s office felt dark, clinical, and oppressive. They stared at one another for a full minute before either of them could formulate a sentence.</p>
<p>	“I have no idea what this meeting with Elias is about.” Jon said. </p>
<p>	“Christ, all right, neither do I… he can’t know can he?” Martin whispered. “How could he possibly know!?” </p>
<p>	“I didn’t tell him!” Jon said, flummoxed.</p>
<p>	“I didn’t either! How did he find out?” Martin answered, trying to keep his voice down.</p>
<p>	“Look, we have no conclusive evidence that this meeting is about… I mean it can’t be about what happened yesterday, it’s impossible.” Jon’s brow furrowed. “But what else could it possibly be about!?” </p>
<p>	“I think… I think we may not be thinking clearly, today.” Martin said. “Because of, you know, what happened.” Martin said. “I’ve been a wreck all morning.” </p>
<p>	Jon nodded, fingers arched in front of his chin. </p>
<p>	“Do you… erm, actually no,” Jon shook his head. “Martin, I just want to tell you that I have no regrets about what happened yesterday. Whatever happens today, I just want you to know that.”</p>
<p>	Martin felt a rush of pure, relieved joy at Jon’s words. He fumbled for a response.</p>
<p>	“That’s…. I mean I’m… neither do I Jon.” Martin said with a little sigh. “Hold on, do you think Elias is going to fire you?” He asked. </p>
<p>	“No, I just… I just wanted you to know that yesterday was lovely, and I don’t regret it, and if at all possible I would like it to happen again.” </p>
<p>	Martin tried very hard to keep it together at that, but for all intents and purposes he had melted into a puddle of emotions.</p>
<p>	“This is all rather mental, isn’t it?” He asked, finally.</p>
<p>	“Yes…” Jon chuckled. “I think… I think it is.” He held out his hand in front of him on his desk, and Martin squeezed it, briefly, cheeks flushed red. </p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	Elias’s office, compared to Jon’s archival basement office, was laughably huge. Windows that made up half of the exterior wall space allowed natural light to stream in, and revealed a stunning view of London. Bookshelves lined the interior walls, some filled with historical volumes and others taken up with the kind of plastic binders and notebooks that end up cluttering any institutional office. Elias sat behind a solid, elaborately carved hardwood desk, his expression unreadable.</p>
<p>	Jon could feel a sheen of sweat forming over his forehead, and tried to calm himself down with deep breaths. Sasha had to pull in a chair from another office so that they could all sit across from Elias for the meeting, but the room had more than enough space for all of them.</p>
<p>	“Pleasure to have you here.” Elias began. “Sorry about setting the meeting on such short notice. I think Jon will understand why, though, once we begin.”</p>
<p>	“Erm…” Jon mumbled, a jolt of panic running through him, but Elias continued before he could make any comment.</p>
<p>	“As I’m sure you all know Jon and Martin have another trip scheduled for next week. They’re taking the train out to Cardiff for an interview.”</p>
<p>	Jon of course would have been able to tell you that he had a trip to Cardiff coming up, but recent events had pushed that knowledge to the back of his mind. The fact that it was coming up next week hit him as a bit of a shock.</p>
<p>	“Tim and Sasha.” Elias turned to address them directly. </p>
<p>	“Who?” Tim asked.</p>
<p>	“Us?” Sasha said.</p>
<p>	“I wanted to have this meeting to gauge your interest in joining Jon and Martin on this trip. We’ve had a woman contact us, Alice Tonner, who I believe fits the criteria for one of our oral histories. I know it’s rather short notice, but I thought that by sending all of you out you’d be able to complete the interviews nearly simultaneously.” </p>
<p>	“Oh!” Sasha exclaimed, surprised. They’d all been so caught up in interpersonal office drama that the thought that this meeting might actually be business related hadn’t crossed her mind at all. “I mean, I’d love to go, I don’t think Tim or I are prepared to actually complete an oral history interview on our own, though…”</p>
<p>	“Oh I think we could manage it, we’ve listened to enough of them!” Tim said, with a bright smile. “Beats being cooped up on the office.”</p>
<p>	“To address Sasha’s concern…” Elias turned to Jon and Martin, whose expressions were only somewhat less terrified than they had been a moment earlier. “I was thinking we could split the two of you up. Jon, I thought you could complete an interview with Tim, and Martin, with Sasha, so that one experienced interviewer was always in the room. How does that sound?” </p>
<p>	“Great!” Martin answered, unconvincingly. “The more the merrier!”</p>
<p>	“So long as it doesn’t add a considerable expense?” Jon asked.</p>
<p>	“Nothing the Institute can’t handle.” Elias  answered, brushing off the concern. </p>
<p>	“Sounds great!” Tim said. “I’ve been going a bit mad transcribing all day, honestly, it should be a good break.” </p>
<p>	“It’s not a break, Tim.” Jon cautioned, “These interviews are very much hard work.” </p>
<p>	“Yeah, of course, yeah.” Tim agreed, rolling his eyes. </p>
<p>	“I’m glad you see you’re feeling better, Martin.” Elias said. “I hope you recover completely before this next trip. Don’t want to wear you out.” Elias smiled. </p>
<p>	“Right.” Martin said. He could never tell from Elias’s tone whether he was fucking with him or not, so he just smiled. “I feel fine.” He said. </p>
<p>	“Then it’s decided. Next week I’m sending you all to Cardiff. Tim, Sasha, once you book your train tickets send me the information, I’ll make sure you’re reimbursed.” </p>
<p>	Jon and Martin left the meeting feeling somewhat dazed. Of course Elias hadn’t known about their rendezvous. What did they think he was, some kind of all-knowing eldritch monster? Ridiculous. </p>
<p>	Their situation, however, was far from resolved.</p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	The train to Cardiff was scheduled for Monday, so Jon and Martin had the rest of the week and the weekend to try to sort their situation out a bit. They had dinner together after work on Wednesday and Thursday night, and on Friday, after Sasha and Tim had left for the day, Martin stepped into Jon’s office and asked, hesitantly, if maybe Jon would like to come to his place that night. </p>
<p>	“That sounds lovely, Martin.” Jon agreed, voice gentler than it usually was. Martin blushed and fled the office, trying to hide his elation.</p>
<p>	Going to the tube station with Jon after work felt bizarre. Here it was, the same boring path he trudged every evening, the same people with glazed-over expressions staring at their phones, the same dingy stairway to the tube, but it all felt radically different. Because now there was a man with him, a man who he cared deeply about. He couldn’t stop glancing at Jon and smiling, wanting to introduce him to the re-occurring characters who appeared in his life around them. “See? Man with a nice suitcase who I run into in this train car nearly every evening? Do you see my person? Isn’t he lovely?”</p>
<p>	But of course they just sat next to one another on the train and made small talk in politely lowered voices to avoid disturbing the whole car. </p>
<p>	They decided to order take-out, Martin knew a really good Indian place around the corner from his flat and they picked some up on their way in. </p>
<p>	Jon looked different, somehow, eating Biryani in Martin’s flat. He always seemed so mature and intense at work, but there was something in the way he tapped his foot as he ate and smiled his half-smiles at Martin’s jokes that felt youthful. Nervous. Martin’s fingers twitched to stroke his hair and soothe him, tell him not to be uncomfortable. Ever, preferably. </p>
<p>	“Do…” Jon’s voice cut through a lull in the conversation, a touch louder than was absolutely necessary. “I’m sorry, do you mind terribly if… ugh.” Jon shook his head and stared down at his food, taking a deep breath. “Martin, I would very much like to spend the night here tonight.”</p>
<p>	“Oh!” Martin turned immediately pink, as he was apt to do.</p>
<p>	“But… erm… I think I would prefer it if we didn’t do anything sexual. Tonight, not… forever, it’s just… I’ve been a bit stressed about this whole trip coming up with Tim and Sasha, and I…”</p>
<p>	“Christ!” Martin laughed out loud before he could stop himself. “That’s fine! Is that why you…? Because its fine!”</p>
<p>	“No it’s Just.” Jon laughed himself, a relieved expression spreading across his face, “It’s just I usually feel like I’m letting people down…”</p>
<p>	“I didn’t pressure you the first time, did I?” </p>
<p>	“No! Not remotely, and, as I said, I’d like to… do it again. Just not… tonight. I’m sorry this feels like a terribly unsexy conversation.” </p>
<p>	Martin laughed again. </p>
<p>	“This is so fine, Jon. You can tell me how you feel, I’d hate it if you didn’t! We can slow down! We started out… honestly it was a bit mad how we started out.” </p>
<p>	“I did enjoy it, you know.” Jon said, smiling more broadly, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. “I just, I’m a bit in my own head at the moment.”</p>
<p>	“So am I, honestly.” Martin very nearly stopped himself, but in a moment of impulsivity put his hand out on the table, the way Jon had earlier that week. </p>
<p>	Jon glanced at it, looked up at Martin’s nervous expression, smiled, and took Martin’s hand. </p>
<p>	They sat there like that for a few moments before squeezing hands and going back to eating their food. They were both blushing.</p>
<p>~*~	</p>
<p>	That night Jon slept in Martin’s bed, wrapped in Martin’s warm arms, feeling more comfortable than he had in months. Every once in a while Martin would kiss the back of his head, and Jon felt a little thrill at the contact.</p>
<p>	The next morning they decided to go out for a nice brunch. Sitting across from Martin, enjoying blackcurrant scones on an outdoor patio, Jon couldn’t help but feel like this was happening to the wrong person. He wasn’t some heroine of a romantic comedy, he didn’t deserve to have this kind, lovely man dote upon him the way that he did, and yet here he was.</p>
<p>	Over what turned into about a three hour brunch Jon and Martin established their plan for the Cardiff trip. They were going to have to tell everyone eventually, Jon was certain there was some institutional rule about not dating someone you directly supervised, but they decided, together, to wait until after the trip. There was no real logical reason for it, just somehow they both felt they needed a bit of time before they blew up the normal social dynamic of the office.</p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	On Monday the entire archival staff met at the train station.</p>
<p>	Through some cruel twist of fate, and the way that seats were taken up on the train, Martin ended up sitting between Tim and Sasha while Jon ended up in a completely different car. If they were trying to avoid the appearance of being over-attached, they overshot it a bit. </p>
<p>	“Look at us, the gang all back together, eh?” Tim said, laughing as he swung into the seat by the window. </p>
<p>	“Er… yeah.” Martin said with a smile.</p>
<p>	Sasha began to set up her laptop, hoping to get some prep work done on the train. At 8am on a Monday this was was decidedly NOT tipsy Sasha, and therefore she had every intention of being competent and productive. That didn’t mean she couldn’t talk a little bit of shit, however.</p>
<p>	“I’ve missed you, Martin, you haven’t responded to any of my texts in… oh… a fortnight?” Sasha said. Her tone was smooth in the way that a pool of sharks might appear to be placid. </p>
<p>	“I’m sorry.” Martin blushed. “I just… I felt like I’d been bothering you two too much with my nonsense…”</p>
<p>	“It’s not nonsense, Martin.” Tim said. </p>
<p>	“Look at us, we love nonsense.” Sasha said, somewhat contradicting Tim’s point. </p>
<p>	“I just… I can’t really talk about it right now.” Martin said.</p>
<p>	“It’s ok, Martin.” Tim said. “You’ll tell us when you’re ready.” </p>
<p>	“But when you are ready…” Sasha leaned forward, giving Martin a look which sent chills down his spine. “You have to explain to us why Jon got into a fight at a petrol station.” </p>
<p>	“I…” Martin snorted at that. He had not been aware that that incident was now public knowledge. “I promise you. When I’m ready, I’ll tell you about it.” </p>
<p>	“All right… since that conversation’s finished, Martin, are you aware then when you talk on the recorder you smack your lips about every thirty seconds?” Tim asked.</p>
<p>	“I…what? Really?” Martin asked.</p>
<p>	“Oh you do.” Sasha agreed. “Take it from those of us that have been typing your every word for the last few months.”</p>
<p>	“Also, would it kill Jon to not drink a whole bottle of water every recording?” Tim complained. “It’s hard enough to transcribe when you’re not being repulsed by the guttural wet noise of your boss’s throat.” </p>
<p>	“I don’t… I mean… we get thirsty…” </p>
<p>	“Next round of interviews you transcribe, and you can tell us what irritating things we do.” Sasha said, opening up a text file on her computer and preparing to get to work.</p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>	Alice Tonner, or Daisy, as she insisted she be called, had the face (and very nearly, the hair) of a male action hero in an 80s American police show. That said, there was something about her mannerisms and expression which exuded an unmistakable femininity. Tim and Jon sat across from her at a small kitchen table, suffocating under an aggressive silence. Daisy remained stone-faced on her side of the table, eyes cold, expression hard.</p>
<p>	“Erm… Thank you for, uh, inviting us to speak with you.” Jon said, adjusting the microphone tripod for the twelfth time and messing it up in the process. </p>
<p>	“Yeah.” Daisy said, watching him fumble to catch the microphone and not elaborating further.</p>
<p>	The silence returned. Tim kept nodding, as though agreeing with some unspoken sentiment, foot rapping on the floor at a fast pace. But whatever he was meant to be agreeing with was anybody’s guess because no-one had said a single thing.</p>
<p>	<i>If Martin were here he’d have her opening up at this point. They’d be chatting about something lovely, I expect.</i> Jon thought, finally getting the microphone back into a reasonably steady upright position. A year ago he never would have thought that he’d be comparing Tim’s work performance negatively compared to Martin’s, of all people. But here they were, Tim sitting there like a handsome lump, while Jon struggled to recover the ability to ask a basic question.</p>
<p>	“So uh, you saw like a monster or something?” Tim asked, finally. “When you were a kid?” </p>
<p>	“That’s not one of the questions on the list, Tim.” Jon snapped at him.</p>
<p>	“Erm, yeah. I mean. I did.” Daisy said. </p>
<p>	“I see.” Jon said, trying to salvage the botched question. The first question one asks in an oral history ought to be easy, comforting, and open ended. An open ended question gives the person a chance to elaborate, and an easy question gives them a little boost of confidence. Tim’s question whiffed on both counts.  “Erm, could you elaborate on that? How old were you?”</p>
<p>	Once Jon managed to steer the reluctant conversation back into the predetermined script, they were able to scrape together something resembling an oral history, but they never managed to shake Daisy’s absolute contempt for both of them as people. Jon was sure it must come through on the recording, every word she said dripped with condescension or anger. </p>
<p>	When they stepped back out into the busy suburban streets of Daisy's neighborhood Tim shook his arms out with a little groan of relief. </p>
<p>	“That was fucking ROUGH” he admitted. </p>
<p>	“It’s not as easy as it sounds, is it?” Jon asked with a little huff, adjusting his laptop bag.</p>
<p>	“I think we owe Martin a drink after that, Christ…” Tim stretched out, as though the awkward silences over the last two hours had physically as well as socially stifled him. </p>
<p>	“Mm.” Jon said, trying to remember what a normal reaction to that statement would be if he and Martin were still just regular colleagues. He couldn’t, so he left it at that.</p>
<p>	They met up back at the hotel. Martin’s delighted expression, when he looked up from scribbling notes in his notebook and saw Jon approaching filled Jon with a burst of radiant happiness and underlying resentment towards their travel companions. He tried to keep his expression in check as they all recounted how things had gone on their interviews and discussed their evening plans. Jon suggested that they all go back to their rooms and get a start on sharing their files with one another. He thought he might pop by Martin's room for a chat.</p>
<p>	“Or… and hear me out on this…” Tim glanced between all of his office mates. “We go out for a drink.” </p>
<p>	“No… Tim…” Martin scoffed.</p>
<p>	“I’m not sure that’s the best use of our time…” Jon protested.</p>
<p>	“Honestly..." Sasha glanced curiously back and forth between her coworkers faces. "I could use a drink. Sounds fun.” She said. Tim punched the air.</p>
<p>	“See? Sasha’s in!” Tim said with a grin. “We won’t do anything wild! You and Martin get to go on these things all the time, this is new for Sash and me!” Tim protested, winking surreptitiously at Sasha. “What harm could it do?” </p>
<p>	Jon let out a long suffering sigh and looked at Martin.</p>
<p>	“I guess… Martin, what do you think?” He asked, tone gentle.</p>
<p>	“I suppose one drink won’t hurt.” Martin heard himself say.</p>
<p>	Tim grinned, and there was something in his expression Jon didn’t quite like.</p>
<p>	“Lovely.” He said. “Let’s roll.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Human Resources</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This time, making their way through the streets of Cardiff while Tim recounted an embellished account of his and Jon's disastrous oral history attempt to Sasha, making her laugh so hard she nearly ran into a street sign, Jon couldn’t help but give Martin a shy glance. </p><p>	“How did yours go?” Jon asked softly, allowing Tim and Sasha to walk ahead of them a few paces.</p><p>	“Oh, it was lovely! Sasha did very well, you’ll be proud when you hear it. I think we got invited to the woman’s wedding at the end of it, I’m not quite sure.” Martin said, tone chipper.</p><p>	“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tim turned around, “You’re probably going to get Christmas cards from her until you die or something, now. You personable twats.” </p><p>	Jon smiled. </p><p>	“Tim and I could certainly have used you, today.” Jon said, making eye contact with Martin and hoping he knew what he meant.</p><p>	Martin’s little smile made it clear that he did. </p><p>	They wound up in a small basement level bar, a touch too stylish for Jon’s taste, but which everyone else seemed to find inoffensive. </p><p>	They laid claim to a small table and Tim returned mysteriously quickly with the first round of drinks. He didn’t even ask what anybody wanted he just brought everyone the bar's featured cocktail. </p><p>	“This is, um, a touch strong, isn’t it? We haven’t had dinner yet…” Jon pointed out.</p><p>	“Bottoms up, Jon!” Tim said, downing his cocktail with a little eye roll. Sasha laughed and began to sip at hers. As time passed crowds of other people began to fill the bar, most of whom appeared to be dolled up uni students dressed for a proper night out. The four work colleagues huddled around their table began to look somewhat haggard in comparison.</p><p>	“Do you think we might be, erm, too old for this establishment?” Jon asked after a young man brushed by him with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel.</p><p>	“Speak for yourself, Jon!” Tim said, now on his third beverage and somehow, despite his office shirt and khaki trousers, still fitting in better than anyone else.</p><p>	“I’m 31!” Jon protested feebly. No one paid any attention. </p><p>	A waitress, wearing some kind of body glitter, appeared at their table carrying a tray of fancy-ish shot glasses containing a lightly fizzing and very pink beverage.</p><p>	“That man over there ordered these for you.” She said, gesturing over to a table on the other side of the room. “He told me to tell you” She pointed at Sasha and addressed her directly, “That if you’re up for ditching these nobs he’d love to chat.” </p><p>	“Excuse me?” Sasha stuttered in response, but the waitress had already bounded off. </p><p>	“Get it, Sash!” Tim strained to get a look at their benefactor. “He’s… well he’s not cute exactly, but he’s got money if he bought us four of these things.” Tim took the shot right away. </p><p>	“He’s fucking mad, I’m dressed like a schoolmistress.” Sasha said, glancing down at her multiple cardigans. “He ought to have gone for that hen night over there!”  Sasha gestured over to a group of loud, drunken, very provocatively dressed young ladies. </p><p>	“That hen night’s not half as lovely as you, Sasha, schoolmistress or not.” Tim assured her. </p><p>	Martin picked up his shot and handed the remaining one to Jon. </p><p>	“Is this… is this about to be one of ‘those nights’?” Jon asked, expression slightly bemused.</p><p>	“No, it’s fine, it’s mostly juice.” Tim assured them. Martin laughed, and he and Jon took the shot at the same time. It burned like a motherfucker, and still managed to be sickeningly sweet.</p><p>	“SHIT! TIM!” Jon coughed.</p><p>	“Sorry, I lied, it’s straight alcohol.” Tim said. </p><p>	“Oh dear…” Martin said, with a little laugh.</p><p>	“Look, I’m getting us one more round, and then we are going home, all right?” Tim said. “Just one more.”</p><p>	In the back of his mind Jon knew that this was probably a bad idea, but he was having a good time, and Martin was there, and really, what was the harm? So he just shrugged and let Tim go get another round. Tipsy as he was though, an instinct did kick in.</p><p>	“Sasha, are you uncomfortable? About that man? Because we can go.”</p><p>	“Yeah we’ll definitely fight him.” Martin said, shouting over the loud music.</p><p>	“Fight him?” Sasha laughed. </p><p>	“I mean…” Jon smiled at Martin, who was swaying on his feet somewhat. “Hopefully we’ll be able to leave before it gets to the point of physical violence…” </p><p>	“I don’t think it will come to that.” Sasha said with a little smile. “But thanks for the offer.” </p><p>	Tim returned with three pints of lager and a glass of white wine. Sasha gave him a look.</p><p>	“What?” Tim said, picking up the glass of white wine and taking a sip. “It’s for me!” </p><p>	At that moment the very loud pop song which had been blasting over the speakers faded, to be replaced by what seemed at first to be very dramatic choir music. Some of the students made confused faces at the sudden shift in tone in the music, rolling their eyes.</p><p>	Jon, having consumed a “sing along to background music at the bar” amount of alcohol, stood up perfectly straight, eyes widening in recogntion. </p><p>	“FUCK.” He said.</p><p>	“JON!” Sasha said. “I thought we weren’t allowed to swear!” </p><p>	At that moment the bass dropped in the song, and some extremely 80s synth, guitar, and drums began to pound throughout the bar. </p><p>	“This song.” Jon turned to Martin. “Do you know this song?” </p><p>	“Um, no?” Martin laughed.</p><p>	“I LOVE this song.” Jon said. </p><p>	“What song is it?” Sasha asked, as a male singer’s voice began to growl to a surprisingly ominous and yet upbeat tune in the background.</p><p>	Jon began to nod his head along with the music. </p><p>	“HEY NOW! HEY NOW NOW!” Jon sang along.</p><p>	Martin laughed in slightly tipsy delight at a drunken Jon Sims singing out loud. None of the younger clientele seemed to have any idea what the song was, but Jon looked seconds away from full on head-banging to it. </p><p>	Tim’s expression could only be described as “shit-stirring.” </p><p>	“You know what people usually do when they love a song this much, you know.” He said. “They dance to it.”</p><p>	“Nope.” Jon shook his head, although he continued to bounce along to the song, still super into it. “Not by myself.” </p><p>	“Oh, is that the issue?” Tim put his wine down, took Jon’s hand, and led him out onto the dance floor. </p><p>	“TIM!” Martin gasped, but Tim was already dancing. For as bizarre and goth as the song clearly was, it was quite easy to dance to. Tim’s confident and slightly goofy dance seemed to free up Jon’s last inhibitions, and the two of them began to really let loose. </p><p>	“HEY NOW, HEY NOW, NOW! SING THIS CORROSION TO ME!” Jon sang aloud with the music, and Tim joined him once he had the grasp of the refrain. A few of the younger people, picking up on the infectious enthusiasm Jon and Tim clearly had for the song, began to dance as well. Mostly they were being ironic, but there's no better song to dance to ironically than "This Corrosion" by the Sisters of Mercy. Jon and Georgie used to request it at 80s night and Goth night at their uni. </p><p>	Martin locked eyes on Jon and Tim, dancing like no-one was watching. He looked like a dog left leashed outside of a restaurant, whining at the window while their owners stepped indoors.  </p><p>	“Oh go on.” Sasha whispered, finishing her drink and giving Martin a little nudge. </p><p>	Martin, gave Sasha a thankful smile and sort of joke danced across the room until he was next to Jon. The three of them made a little odd triangle out there for a few minutes, dancing and posing dramatically to the song's fun melodrama. Jon began to dance a bit closer to Martin then perhaps was professional, but Martin just blushed and let it happen. Tim watched his boss and his office mate with close interest, still dancing but giving them a bit of space. He glanced over to their table, and was surprised to see that Sasha was not on her own anymore. The man from earlier, the man who had purchased her a drink, was now at her side. Sasha's body language did not look comfortable. </p><p>	“Be back in a tick.” Tim said, although Martin and Jon seemed too engrossed in each other to listen. Tim skipped back over to the table, where a man in his forties was now standing  in Sasha's personal space.</p><p>	“Hullo friend!” Tim said, making eye contact with Sasha. “How’s things?” </p><p>	“Hello love.” Sasha said, giving Tim a look. “I was just telling him about you. You know. Being my boyfriend and all that.” </p><p>	“Got it.” Tim effortlessly wrapped his arms around Sasha’s shoulders and made a face at the encroaching gentleman. “So uh, you can shove off, then, mate.” </p><p>	“Seriously? Why’d you take the drinks then?” The man asked, looking annoyed.</p><p>	“Because they were free drinks. That’s just how it goes.” Tim said. </p><p>	“Yeah,” Sasha said, “You can’t just buy a woman a drink she didn’t ask for and then act like she owes you shit.” </p><p>	“Oh fuck off.” The man rolled his eyes and began to leave the table. </p><p>	“Yeah, fuck you, too.” Sasha muttered, giving Tim’s forearm a little squeeze of thanks.</p><p>	“Holy shit!” Tim exclaimed. </p><p>	“Oh it can’t be that surprising that some man might try to get off with me…” Sasha said.</p><p>	“No, fuck, Sasha, LOOK!” Tim turned Sasha around until she had a good view of the dance floor, where Martin and Jon were standing not just close together, but actually holding one another. As they watched, Jon leaned in and kissed Martin right on the mouth. Martin kissed back with enthusiasm. </p><p>	“OH SHIT!” Sasha said. </p><p>	“They’re really having at it, aren’t they?” Tim said, but as he said it Martin and Jon pulled apart and looked back at them, utterly horrified.</p><p>	Sasha covered her mouth in surprise. Tim, keeping one arm wrapped around Sasha’s shoulders, shook his finger at both of them with a little scolding wag.</p><p>	Martin looked up at Jon.</p><p>	“What do we do?” He whispered.</p><p>	Jon sighed and gave Martin one more small kiss. </p><p>	“I need a cigarette.” He admitted.</p><p>~*~</p><p>	After a series of probably the most anxiety inducing emails Jonathan Sims had ever sent or recieved, worse, even, then the emails accepting or rejecting him from graduate school, Jon ended up, once again, in a face to face meeting with Elias Bouchard. He’d almost never had to interact with Elias before getting this grant, now he felt like they were nearly on first name basis.</p><p>	Martin wasn’t there, Elias had only invited Jon. Martin had volunteered to work in the reading room that day, but had spent all morning sending Jon encouraging texts whenever he got a free moment, the kinds of texts which included multiple heart emojis. Jon would never have described himself as the type of person who enjoyed multiple heart emoji texts. Every time he opened one, though, it did make him smile, so he was just going to have to live with that.</p><p>	“So as I suppose you know we don’t have an HR department.” Elias explained shifting in his chair and crossing his arms in front of him at his desk. </p><p>	“Yes, I’ve figured that out.” Jon said.</p><p>	“Which, in essence, makes ME the HR department." Elias said. "So I did a bit of reading in the company policies, to find out what to do in this situation.” </p><p>	Jon froze. This was the moment of truth. He was about to be sacked or relocated or taken off the grant or what have you.</p><p>	“You and Martin aren’t living together, are you?” Elias asked.</p><p>	“W-what?” </p><p>	“I mean, you don't share a lease?”</p><p>	“No.” Jon had been spending the night quite a bit at Martin’s these days, and vice versa, but it was far too early to talk about moving in with one another.</p><p>	“Then you’re fine.” Elias said, with a little shrug. </p><p>	“Excuse me… what?” Jon asked, confused. “I… I directly supervise Martin. This is definitely a conflict of interest. I could very easily turn this into a <i>quid pro quo</i> situation…”</p><p>	“Have you, Jon?” Elias asked.</p><p>	“Of course not!” Jon puffed up at the accusation, even though he had sort of made it himself.</p><p>	“Then Jon…” Elias turned his computer monitor to show his employee a zoomed in PDF of company policies. One rule stuck out in a bright yellow highlight. It read, “Workplace relationships are permitted under Magnus Institute policy, but it is prohibited to serve as an immediate supervisor to one’s spouse.”</p><p>	“See?” Elias continued. “If you lived together then our policy would technically describe Martin as your spouse, but if not?” Elias shrugged again. “You’re fine.”</p><p>	“So… it’s fine for me to date Martin.” Jon said, trying to let the words bounce around his brain for a moment and sink in. "It's allowed."</p><p>	“Correct. If you want to get married though, one of you will have to transfer departments. Also if you break up badly I will brutally murder you, because that sort of bad energy is exactly the last thing we need in this office.” </p><p>	“I… thank you, Elias. Erm, is that… is there anything else?” Jon asked, somewhat light-headed.</p><p>	“I mean no PDA at work, don’t go fucking in the stacks or anything...”</p><p>	“ELIAS!”</p><p>	“Look I just read our entire company policy on workplace sexual harassment, I am well within my rights, there.” </p><p>	“I think I’m ready to go now.” Jon stood up. “Thank you... for your help.” </p><p>	“Honestly if you two start sharing hotel rooms on these trips it’ll save us QUITE a bit of money.” </p><p>	“Goodbye, Elias.” Jon gathered up his things and stepped out of the office. A massive, crushing weight on his chest was just... gone. The halls even looked different, brighter, like he had stepped into an office and walked out into an entirely new building. He actually began to walk the wrong direction down the corridor, like he had forgotten how to return to the archives. That morning he’d honestly been planning what his course of action would be if he had gotten sacked. Now… everything was going to be all right.</p><p>	He went down the multiple staircases it took him to get to the archival offices, but paused at the door to their offices. Turning abruptly he hurried back up towards the reading room. </p><p>	Through the back entrance, where his old office used to be, he entered the chilly, dim space of the Magnus Archives reading room. Martin was at the reference desk, glancing at his phone and then up at the researchers, and then back down at his phone. He rapped his fingers on the desk in front of him intermittently.</p><p>	Jon cleared his throat.</p><p>	Martin looked up, eyes wide, expression filled with fear.</p><p>	“Are we sacked?!” Martin whispered, loud enough that a woman researching at the front table glanced up in annoyance.</p><p>	Jon couldn’t help but smile as he shook his head.</p><p>	“OH!” Martin didn’t even whisper his noise of excitement and rushed over to where Jon stood.</p><p>	Jon whispered the situation in Martin’s ear and they gave one another a quick hug, filled with warmth and care and relief. </p><p>	“We can’t kiss in the archive though, that’s not allowed.” Jon said, pulling back with a little smile. "It's all rather reasonable actually, I can't quite believe it."</p><p>	“I’m just glad to have a job!” Martin laughed, glancing back over his shoulder, making sure all the researchers were where they were supposed to be and nobody had a question. Jon felt a little rush of pride. “Let’s go out to dinner tonight! To celebrate!” Martin whispered.</p><p>	“Anywhere you want.” Jon said, and then, on impulse, gave Martin a quick peck. “There, that’s the last kiss in the archives.”</p><p>	“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” Martin said with a little blush.</p><p>	Another noise of throat clearing came from the front desk. Jon and Martin both gasped and turned to look, horrified that it might be Elias.</p><p>	Gerry stared at both of them, expression utterly confused.</p><p>	“Um, I’m trying to return a box.” He said. “Sorry to interrupt.”</p><p>	“It’s fine!” Martin let out a little musical laugh. “It’s fine, everything’s fine.”</p><p>	And for once, he actually meant it.</p><p>-end-</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>FRIENDS thank you so much for reading and commenting. I hope you enjoyed this!</p><p> It feels like 100 years ago when I began posting this fic, back when we were all allowed outdoors and restaurants and bars were still open and everything wasn't quite so horrifying! Anyway, you have all been so nice and lovely and I just wanted to say THANK YOU. Stay safe everyone! I hope you all enjoy a bit of fluffy content before season 5 hits!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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